


Paint It Black

by wily_one24



Series: Living In The Grey [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 131,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wily_one24/pseuds/wily_one24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This might actually be fun, Regina thinks, breaking Emma Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Paint It Black.  
>  **Author:** Jacqui,  
>  **Rating:** NC17.  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Evil Queen/Emma, the usual cast of Henry, Snow, Charming, Red, Grumpy, Rumplestiltskin, the guy who crossed the screen back in the crowd of the pilot episode... everyone is fair game.  
>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.  
>  **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.  
>  **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** This might actually be fun, Regina thinks, breaking Emma Swan.  
>  **Wordcount:** This chapter? 10,419.

***~*~*~*~*  
PAINT IT BLACK  
*~*~*~*~***

Mary Margaret wakes cocooned around a warm body. 

Her brain flashes, a thousand countless images in strobe against her brain. _David!_ But the images continue, an unstoppable slide reel, and it is Snow’s jaw that tightens. 

“Charming!”

She shakes him, scared all at once that the return has brought him back to the moment the curse first fell, bleeding and near death in her hands, but a flash second later she registers the rise and fall of his chest underneath her. 

He blinks himself awake, to the sound of voices coming in all around the neglected, spider-webbed castle, confused and disoriented and angry. She can feel the surge of him upwards, the pull of his body out of her grasp as he pats himself down, then his strong, familiar arms gathering her to him. 

Unfortunately, her brain is faster, a step ahead of the reunion, because her voice breaks, low and mournful. 

“Emma.”

And she feels the sag of his defeat. 

***

They gather in the main hall, arriving in small groups, in differing states of memory and realisation. 

Snow catalogues them in her mind, Hansel and Gretel reunited with their father, saved by Emma. Grumpy, who was never so grumpy with her, watching with quiet, smouldering anger, surrounded by his six closest friends that has barely spoke to in years. Red gathering her cloak around her shoulders as she trails after Granny, the shock of scarlet in her hair obvious and as obnoxious as Ruby’s leftover makeup on her face. She lifts her right hand to twist the short locks of her own cut, missing the full glory of tresses and immediately ashamed of her own vanity in the face of everyone’s distress. Jimminy flies to the table with a resolute sadness. 

Even as her heart breaks, her hand cradles an acheless, long empty belly. Her logic tells her it’s been twenty-eight years, everything else says less than a day. 

Her husband stands beside her, they stand united, a beacon for the others to follow, and she cannot falter her people now. 

“She was with Henry at the hospital.” Ella says at last, her chubby babe swaddled and clutched to her chest, an expression of sympathy on her face. Snow bites down the rising bitterness. “That’s the last anyone saw.”

“And Henry.” Snow breathes, suddenly resolute and cold. “Will be with Regina.”

 

“Prepare the horses.” And Charming is everything David never was, decisive and proactive and clear and hers. “We ride in the morrow.”

***

Henry twists, uncomfortable under the heavy pelts of his new bed as the very beginnings of sunlight flicker through the window. 

He is not prepared for this world, for the knowledge and proof that he was correct, the all-encompassing guilt and horror. It is one thing to suspect your mother is an Evil Queen, bent on the destruction of the world and everyone in it, but the truth of it is unthinkable. 

There is never any sleep for him here, every time he closes his eyes he sees Storybrooke and the people in it, denied everything they held dear. His own family, right in front of his nose, grandmother and grandfather, there but for the curse. 

He does not see Emma. 

His brain won’t allow him to think about her when he is alone, but her name is always in the back of his thoughts, an insidious little whisper that pulses with his rapid heart. 

They woke up together, swirling and eddying in a thick confusion, on a stone cold floor. Before either of them had the chance to understand, they’d been interrupted by a low, chilling, all too familiar laugh. Henry had looked up to see his mother as he’d never known her, the penultimate Queen from his book, long black hair, black gown and blacker eyes. 

She had obviously recovered quicker than they had. 

And neither he nor Emma were prepared for the force of her power. 

Henry is safe, for now, but he can still hear the crisp, clear call of _’guards!’_ and the men that had trumped in after, the way they’d grabbed Emma and dragged her, kicking and screaming out of the room. 

_”You are my son.”_ The Queen, his mother, had bent almost double to put her face near his. _“You best remember that.”_

That had been two weeks ago. Henry isn’t even sure where Emma is. He knows vaguely, from conversations he is sure he was not supposed to overhear, that Snow White -his grandmother! Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard!- and her army are trying to pass some barrier that had been erected. 

Henry is expected to dress, to appear at meals, to go to classes designed for him, both academic and now practical, fencing and horse riding, as set up for him in a strict regime. Above all else, he is supposed to play the grateful, dutiful son, as if they are still back in Storybrooke. 

That is the last thing he can do. His classes remain unattended.

Every time he is summoned to his mother’s presence, cold and regal and always black, he yells at her, unafraid for himself, secure in the knowledge she would never hurt him, because she hasn’t yet. He rants against his imprisonment, the curse, the destruction of so many lives, and Emma, he demands to know. 

And every time, his adopted mother ignores his outbursts and with a quiet, steady voice, demands he sit and eat his soup. 

Many a bowl or plate end up on the floor, many nights he is sent straight back to his room. 

A knock sounds on his door and he is barely able to slide his legs out from the pelts before it is thrust open. There is only one person who would dare barge in without waiting for an answer. 

“Henry.” He can only just look at her face. “This has to stop. You are a prince now, this rebellion isn’t cute. It’s setting a bad example.”

As superficially patient as ever, he can hear the frustration and anger coiled behind her teeth as she tries to honey him to her will. 

“Where’s Emma?” 

The air shifts around him, electrified, and he looks up in alarm to see the tightening of her expression, the hard set of her lips, the shake of her limbs. In another world, it would signal a definite grounding. In this world, he is groundless, scared of her power and cruelty and confused at the two, blending memories of her. 

His arm squeezes painfully as she grabs him, drags him upright still in his nightshirt. 

“Fine.” She sneers, harsher than she has been to him yet. “You want to see your precious Emma? Let’s go.”

His feet stumble in the half light of morning as they stride through the castle, down several flights of stairs, further and further down, barely raising a glance from the guards posted regularly. His heart sinks as fast as their footfalls the deeper they go. 

Any child knows what rooms lie beneath the castle. 

He’s shoved through a heavy, wooden door and stretches his eyes out to accommodate the darkness, to make sense of what he is seeing. There’s little light this far down, all the way underground, and a flaming torch on the wall gives only a flickering sort of haze. 

The walls and floor are unfinished, a hard packed earth, solid and dank. From floor to ceiling run vertical bars, thick and with the appearance of rust, viciously sharp pointed thorns adorn the metal work, waiting for someone to try to squeeze through. It is definitely a dungeon. It smells of earth and beasts. He can hear the unmistakable snorting breaths of animals nearby, close. 

When his eyes have properly adjusted to the dark, he sees her, a figure crouched in the middle of the floor, a grey tattered tunic around her small form. Strange, he has never thought of her as small before. 

“Emma!” A choked, guttural cry as he runs to the cage. “Emma, it’s me!”

His fingers clench around the bars as he watches her skittish movements, the way her head flicks up to scan him, her eyes two fine narrow points of suspicion, her hair hanging dank and limp down her skull. Her skin is a mottled map of dried, caked in dirt and something he refuses to acknowledge as blood. 

“H…He…” Shaky and scared and disbelieving, her voice cracks and coughs before struggling to sound again. “Hen-reh?”

Then a sob cracks out of her throat and he can only watch as she scrambles in the dirt, struggles for a second, and then seems to drag herself across the floor in a crawl. 

One eye, swollen and bruised and bloody, rolls up to look at him. 

“You’re alive?”

“Of course.” He isn’t sure he can formulate any more than that. “Of course I am.”

A filthy, shaky hand reaches out through the bars, and he almost steps back, but doesn’t. He lets himself be touched, a slide against his shoulder, uncontrolled and unplanned as her fingers try to catch onto something real and tangible. 

“Well, well, Miss Swan.”

The voice comes, thick and rich and obscene in the setting, strong and healthy and smug behind him. 

The effect on Emma is immediate and instinctual. Henry can swear he feels his heart stop as Emma literally throws herself backwards, landing with a heavy oomph, and then scrambling fast and desperately to the far corner of the cell, plastering herself against the wall and breathing in short, sharp staccato beats. 

A trapped animal, tortured and expecting more of the same. 

“What did you do?” He spins towards the Evil Queen. “What did you do to her?”

A soft whine hums low to the ground and he realises that there are, in fact, dogs here. 

The sneer on her face is terrible as she kneels down in front of him, brings herself eye to eye, and grabs his chin in the pincers of her fingers. 

“Do you see, Henry?” She forces his face back towards the cell, to the cowering heap of his birth mother in the corner. “Do you see the price of your rebellion?”

He struggles to free himself, but she holds firm. 

“Every time you don’t obey me, each lesson that you skip, each plate of meat you toss to the floor, someone pays.” Her mouth comes close to his ear. “And it obviously isn’t you.”

Tears spring hot and harsh, pooling and spilling out of the corners of his eyes. 

“Let her go.” He begs. “Let her go and I’ll be good. I’ll do what you want, please.”

A lifetime of playing dutiful son rises behind his eyes, a thousand times worse as a dark prince than the future of a dutiful mayor’s son. 

Her hand eases the tight grip on his chin, sliding to cup it instead. A mockery of parental concern. 

“I knew you’d see reason eventually.” She pats his cheek and the softness of it shatters something inside him. “If you play nice, she can have everything. A chamber of her own, a wardrobe befitting a princess, freedom, she’ll share her meals with us. She’ll be taken care of.”

He doesn’t need to think. 

“Yes. Please, yes. I’ll do anything.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, cold and calculating, and he gets the feeling he gave too much too fast. 

“I hope you mean that, Henry.” Then her free arm flies outward, pointing towards the cage. “Because there will be consequences for any transgression.”

A scream sounds from within, broken and bubbling, as Emma begins to beg in earnest. Henry looks to see her on her back, writhing in the dirt, her shoulders lifted off the ground as her face twists in pain. 

“No! Stop! I’ll do it!” Desperate, frantic, Henry can’t even think. He says the only thing left to him. “Mom, please.”

Emma drops to the dirt, swallowing her sobs in rasping gasps, and the creature wearing his mother’s face stands up and twirls, striding out without waiting for him, assuming he will follow without question. 

Henry takes one last look at the figure just beginning to draw herself back together, his hand lingers on the bar. 

“I’ll be back, Emma. I promise.”

And then he walks out. 

***

Regina sits in the high backed chair, spine straight and face passive, as she watches Henry approach the table. 

He has done everything she’s asked for the last two days, faltering only once the previous night when he had gotten to the table and there had still been only the two of them. He has done everything, but it hasn’t made her happy. 

There is a sullen, scared, distasteful form of obedience in him that galls her. 

She knows without a doubt that he is no longer hers, if he ever was, that he will turn on her like everyone else. 

“Good evening, Henry.”

He slants his eyes at her, betrayed and accusing. 

“Good evening, mother.” 

The words are parroted, meaningless as he folds himself into the chair designated to him at the table. Even as she watches, Regina sees him scan the plates full of food, taking stock one by one, and finally settling on the third place set across from him. 

“Is she coming?” The first real spark of emotion nearly blinds her. “Like you promised?”

Regina’s fingers steeple in front of her, but she doesn’t need to respond, because the loud sound of a door opening crashes through the tension. 

Emma stumbles in, released from the hands of the guards, 

She is awkward as she’s never been before. Scrubbed and almost healed, hair pulled back, in a simple gown. It is green and plain and notable only for the way that it obviously does not belong on her frame, too short and ill fitting. A frame that is markedly weakened and frail. 

Sitting at the head of the table, Regina’s fingers close over Henry’s wrist, seated at her right. He halts the launch from his chair and bristles at her touch. 

“Good evening, Miss Swan.” She gestures to the setting across from Henry, just to her left. “Please take a seat.”

The same suspicion and distrust clouds her eyes that has clouded Henry’s and Regina straightens even further at the reminder of genetics. Her eyes watch every movement, the hesitant steps forward, the silent conversation between Henry and Emma, eyes throwing questions and comfort without words, the gentle easing of herself into the waiting chair. 

Regina suppresses a smile at the flicker of pain that crosses Emma’s face as her body bends into a seated position. 

“Let’s not stand on ceremony.” Voice thick and sweet, her hands unfold her napkin in crisp, precise movements that belie her words. “I’m sure you must be hungry.”

And for the first time, Emma’s eyes drag away from Henry, from her, to the table. Regina has ordered a feast tonight and the edges of her mouth curl up when she sees it. That pang of starvation, the gnaw of a stomach gone too long without nourishment, the desperation of a starving woman. 

At worst, she will gorge herself stupid and be sick in front of Henry. But not Emma, Regina is fairly sure this is a ritual of her childhood, this hunger feast combination, the denial of all things and then a switch of environment, a new home before the threat rolls in again, one that has been drilled into her from an early age. She read the reports, back when they were relevant, the history of abuse and neglect. 

No, she won’t do anything that crass, but there is only so much one can hold back and then Emma is reaching out, grabbing a roll of bread out of the basket and bringing it back into her chest, protective as she begins to nibble, frightened it will be snatched away from her immediately as she spares Regina a sideways glance of apprehension. The skittish movements of prey being hunted. 

“Henry?” And that sounds more like the Emma of old. “How are you, really?”

The boy nods, a quick gesture of confirmation, eyes wide and wary. He’s a quick learner, he always has been, way too smart for his own good, and he has obviously caught onto the threads of something sinister. 

There’s a landmine and he needs to look where he’s treading. 

“I’m good.” He doesn’t even glance when Regina piles his plate full of food. “What about you?”

“She’s fine. Aren’t you, dear?”

Eyes wide, Emma nods. Her eyes scan the table again, teeth biting her lip, until she can hold back no longer and then takes a small piece of the roast. Nibbling again. 

“And…” Tremulous and wary, Emma watches Regina, alert for any hint that she’s crossing the line. “Mary Margaret? The others…?”

“Your mo…” Henry chokes back his interruption with one quick, scathing glance. 

“Mary Margaret is gone.” She takes a slow, deep swallow of wine as she watches the horror and grief begin to form. “But Snow White is just fine.”

Emma recovers quickly, closing her mouth with a snap. Having tested the boundaries of her shrunken stomach, of Regina’s tolerance of her at the table, Emma begins to serve herself larger amounts of food as she waits for the explanation. 

“Most likely off with her Prince Charming, and all the rest of your so called friends, working hard at getting that happy ever after they were so desperate to protect. Well, they probably would if they weren’t trying so hard to find a way through my enchantments. We’re quite protected here, in our little sphere of the land.”

Henry is watching them, eyes going back and forth, trying to map out this little game. 

But he is no longer a main player and the sooner Regina admits that to herself, the better. She has said goodbye to him twice now, once as she’d kissed his swiftly cooling dead brow in the hospital room. And then only minutes later, after he’d woken and the curse had been broken. She’d known then she had to let him go, just as she knows now the last two weeks have been the desperate clutches of a desperate woman. And that does not befit the wicked witch. 

There is, however, a different way to play this game. And she is beginning to realise that she holds the upper hand like never before. 

“They haven’t recovered as nearly as quickly as I, I’m afraid. But I’m sure in just a few days they’ll find enough power and magic to break it down and storm the castle, come to rescue you.”

She can truly cut down Snow White, hurt her where she lives, and with that thought, Regina can practically taste the vengeance running down her teeth. 

“You and poor, little Henry here.” Her eyes slide right over his face, as familiar to her as her own, as anything she’s ever known, the son she’d never had. For one second, the thinks maybe she can keep him and meld his mind back to her, but then she lets it go. “Henry, who has been given so much since we’ve been here that he feels the need to throw untold amounts of his food about, wasting it while you were starving, fighting the dogs to gnaw on a bone.”

She can hear Emma’s gasp at her cruelty, but it’s Henry she’s watching, that crushing of the last fragments he might have been holding onto, even after everything, any hope he ever had of redeeming his evil, wicked mother. He bows his head, unable to look either of them in the eye. 

“But don’t worry, it will all be over soon.” Regina announces, full of drama. “Before the barrier falls down, Miss Swan, you will take Henry back to Snow White and her band of merry men. And you will give him his own happy ever after.”

Regina doesn’t watch them, doesn’t need to see the hope spring in their eyes. 

Rejected yet again. 

“Guards!”

They drag Emma away from the table for a second time, amid Henry’s sudden protests.

***

She thinks, initially, they mean to take her back underground, to live amongst the dogs, to be brought out and hosed down on occasion to keep Henry happy. 

But they turn right in the hallway and then up the large flight of stairs. Towards the chambers then, Emma thinks, that large, grand room they’d bought her to earlier, left her to dress and make herself presentable. 

Maybe Regina, the Queen, will keep her word. The first deal, at least. She doesn’t hold out much hope of being set free. Maybe she will have her own space, her own clothes, still a prisoner, but one with more rights than she’d had recently. 

The hands on her arms bite roughly, holding tightly as they continue to drag her forwards, not caring too much if her feet find purchase on the stone floor at all. This entire palace above ground is built of stone and steel, all angles, with no sign of the dankness that she’d been kept in. They continue past the door of her chamber, at least, the one she remembers as being hers. 

Now she’s groundless, she has no idea where they’re taking her, and they don’t speak to her. She learned that lesson quickly. They follow their Queen’s orders, they don’t deviate one iota, they barely even look her in the eye. Wherever she’s going, there is no way to stop it. Her only choice in this matter, if she does not want to fight or try to defend herself against them, is to follow obediently. 

They take her to a different chamber, a series of rooms really, that is larger and grander than any apartment she has ever owned or rented. It is lavish and obscene and stark, but mostly it is draped in black. And Emma has a strong suspicion she knows who sleeps here. 

“Wait here for Her Majesty, the Queen.”

It is a barked order, one that brooks no argument. 

Well, she thinks, at least she is neither shackled nor beaten. That certainly is an improvement. Her belly is growling, rolling in on itself. She hadn’t eaten much before she’d been dismissed, certainly not as much as she’d wanted, but whatever she’d managed is sitting heavy now. 

She does not know exactly how to wrap her head around what is happening. Despite her current circumstances, she almost can’t believe that Henry’s tales are true. It is hard, however, to argue with the memory of fighting a dragon, the magic that had saved Henry and the reality of the steel bars, the stone floors, and the magic that had wrapped itself around her and squeezed until she’d screamed while Regina had laughed. 

True. Her brain keeps screaming at her, it’s all true. 

Which means, as Henry had tried to tell her numerous times, Mary Margaret actually is her mother. 

Her heart aches a little when she thinks about it, all those times they had talked, the times they had laughed and even poked a little fun at the theory. All the times Emma had secretly wished it to be true. All the things they could have said to each other. 

And further back, back to where she hates remembering, where she tries so often never to go, back to all those nights huddled under threadbare sheets, with bony knees and a child’s fervent prayer, pleading with all her might as she closed her eyes and wished herself to be a princess in a tale, waiting for her parents to ride in and rescue her. From the dragons, the beasts and evil witches and the most dangerous of all, the foster parents. 

It was all true. 

Bitterness eats at her, flickering around the corners of her brain, because she was supposed to be a princess, a happy, loved child in a happy, loving family, wanting for nothing. And it was stolen from her. Her parents’ lives stolen. All the people she had grown to like and to love in Storybrooke, stolen. 

It is then, as Emma is standing there stewing in resentment, in the same place the guard had left her, without having taken even one step, that the door opens behind her. 

“I must say.” Regina chuckles darkly, walking in a circle and coming around to face her. “I think I almost miss the leather jacket.”

It’s a split second, a flash of anger, where Emma wants to spit in her face. This woman drenched in black, with the sculptured dress and the dark make up and starkly contrasted white flesh against finely detailed black hair, this woman is almost Regina Mills, Emma’s adversary and Henry’s mother. The Mayor of Storybrooke. 

But it passes, too quickly it passes, because while she is almost Regina Mills, she is wholly the Evil Queen and Emma cannot forget the weeks in the dungeon where it seemed she visited daily, sometimes more than once, to torture her. For pleasure, for revenge, for no reason at all except to hear Emma beg. 

As a control for Henry’s obedience. 

She has no doubts that this Regina can and will cause her pain, if not death, without blinking. Emma needs to play this differently, needs to back down and act meek at least for now. Because while she is Henry’s control, there does not even need to be a spoken threat for her to know that Henry is hers. She also has no doubt that this Regina will hurt Henry if provoked enough. 

“Now that we’re alone, I propose we make a deal of our own.” Regina arches her brow and waits, when no answer comes she sighs. “You can speak, Miss Swan. In fact, I encourage you to do so.”

Emma’s hope sinks a little bit more, she knew it was too good to be true. 

“You’re not letting us go? Please.” Because somewhere in there, she has to believe, is Regina Mills, the woman who fought so hard for the best for Henry. “For Henry’s sake, don’t lie to him. 

An amused smile, sharp and angular, precedes the teeth that glimmer. 

“I didn’t lie. That is exactly what I’m proposing, I will let Henry go, just like I promised him. He has no business in my life. I don’t want him here anymore. He will thrive, I am sure, with the sickly sweet horde of do good-ers you call family.”

Emma blinks. 

“Henry?” Fear ratchets up her spine. “But not me?”

It’s the eyes that scare her most, delighted and hungry as they watch her squirm. 

“Well, Miss Swan, there is a price for freedom and happiness. You for him. You, for the happiness of your entire kingdom.” She leans in close. “Everyone you hold dear, your mother and father, their friends, your son. I will leave them alone, let them stumble through their lives, striving for joy and good and sunshine and bluebirds and puppies, for all I care.”

It’s absurd, it’s inconceivable. 

Her struggle must show on her face. 

“Make no mistake, there is a battle looming. They are summoning all their friends and powerful allies, making new alliances, they are preparing for a war they think must be fought. They don’t want it, but right now I’m sure they believe I will never leave them alone, that they will never be safe until I’m gone.”

She laughs, low and sinister. 

“And for vengeance, I am sure. I have done the most unthinkable things to those people.”

Regina’s hand comes up, her forefinger extended, and Emma cannot stop herself from flinching away. It catches her chin, however, and pulls her face closer. Emma can feel warmth from Regina’s face on hers. 

“But you can end it all, Emma. I will leave them all alone, for the rest of their lives and mine, if you agree to stay here.”

She closes her eyes, unable to process it.

“And never see them again?”

Henry, she had just gotten to know him. Just gotten to know Mary Margaret, Snow White, who was her very first friend in a good, long while. Family, the word sticks in her throat, everything she had ever wanted, the only thing she had ever wanted. 

The pointed finger under her chin flattens, is joined by four others, and then Regina is cupping her cheek. 

“I had an agreement with Henry, it still stands. You will have your own chambers, your own wardrobe, but most of all you will have your freedom, as it were. You will be free to visit with them one week out of every month, provided you return. Willingly. Provided you make them let you return. I am sure they will try to keep you with them, they may even use magic, but nothing will work against your own will. This is your choice.”

It’s too easy, much too easy. 

“And that’s it?” Emma opens her eyes to find intense ones staring into them. “I just have to stay here? No more dungeon under the castle?”

Regina shrugs. 

“We returned to this land almost exactly as we had left it. I have no need for anything or anyone new in my castle. Certainly, there is no room for children, and prisoners are much too much work. In fact, there is only one vacancy here, one person unaccounted for that needs replacing.”

And it is here that Emma feels that almost certain dread crawling up her spine again. 

“Graham.” 

Regina mouths the name, whispers it to her with just a hint of anger and spite. Emma shakes her head in confusion, disbelief. 

“You need a sheriff? I mean…” She tries to remember, desperately, what Henry had said about it, about the wolves and the knife and Snow White. “A hunter? You need a hunter?”

“No.” Lips closed tight in amusement for just a second, Regina’s eyes watch her carefully. “No, Miss Swan, I don’t need a hunter.”

It takes her that second and a few more for her to fit the pieces together. 

“But Graham didn’t do anything else for you…” Her brows crumple together. “Oh.”

Her body reacts on instinct, pulling back as she tries to step away, suddenly intensely aware of how close they are, but Regina’s hand closes tightly under her chin again, her other hand springing out of nowhere to hold the back of her head. She can go nowhere. 

“You’re kidding, that’s not…” But the confirmation is right there in Regina’s eyes, dark and cruel. “You can’t mean…?”

“But I do, dear.” 

She is dragged forward, that last inch, and their mouths smash together. Emma clamps her lips shut, but it’s useless, that mashing of teeth behind lips, jaw bones pushing. It’s harsh and painful and violent as she struggles to pull back.

“Or…” Regina offers, finally breaking away, “I can throw you back down to the dogs, keep Henry with me and eventually break him down, turn him against you and everyone else, until he’s as dark as I. Until he kills you himself. And whilst he’s doing that, I’ll be hunting down and killing your mother, not resting until the ground is awash with her blood.”

A whimper chokes out of her throat, unbidden and painful. 

“It’s your choice.”

But it’s no choice at all and they both know it. 

Emma nods into the hands that still hold her head. 

“Wonderful.” With a large and grandiose sweep, Regina lets go and twirls around, gesturing. “Then we have two days to prepare for your journey. You most certainly need new clothes, Henry’s trunks must be packed, and you, my dear, you.”

At this, she stops, turning to face Emma again, a smile on her face that borders on unpleasant. 

“You have two days to convince me that you’re willing, that you’ll be my pet, obey my every whim and will. I know you heard the stories, I know you’re aware that I stole Graham’s heart, I hope you don’t force me to do that again. Because I will. You also have one little task to complete before you go.”

With no hands holding her still, Emma fears she will fall down, swaying slightly as if drunk on her feet. This cannot be happening. 

“One little visit.” Regina emphasises her point by pinching her left thumb and forefinger together. “To see an old friend from Storybrooke. I believe you’re quite familiar with him.”

Before she has a chance to figure out this latest puzzle, Regina steps closer again, places the fingertips of her right hand against Emma’s breastbone, and pushes her. Emma stumbles, feet skidding on the floor until her back hits the door behind her. 

And Regina is fast, pressing her whole body against her, knee to knee, hip to hip, breasts to breasts, face an inch from her own. 

“Now, about convincing me…”

***

This might actually be fun, Regina thinks, breaking Emma Swan. 

She forces her mouth onto Emma’s again, allowing only this one more time Emma’s resistance, before leaning down and laving a thick, wet stripe up the tendon of her neck. The woman trembles, shivers in her grasp. 

“Come on, Emma, a little more convincing than that.”

There it is, the setting of her jaw, the tightening of her eyes, and then Emma’s body stops fighting, stops struggling, becomes pliant in Regina’s hands. And this time, when she closes her mouth on Emma’s, there is no resistance. 

She pushes the shoulder of the borrowed gown down, taking in the exaggerated jutting of Emma’s collarbone. She makes a mental note to feed the woman well in the coming weeks, restore her to the strong woman she used to be. 

“I’ll have you measured tomorrow.” The plans are spoken out loud. “You’ll have new clothes made and you will wear them. But for now, this does not fit you.”

Regina steps back and gestures to the simple gown, wonders if perhaps she should tell Emma it is her mother’s. It was certainly never her own. Another moment passes and Regina raises an eyebrow before Emma catches on. 

It’s a challenge and she knows Emma cannot resist them. 

“Do you need help?” She asks, arch and cloyingly sweet. “I’m sure my guards could take it off for you, if you like. They haven’t seen a warm blooded woman in a long time.”

There, behind Emma’s eyes, a flicker of fear, the truth that Regina would follow through with the threat without blinking. 

Emma’s hands rise slowly, unsure, even as her eyes are resolute and unblinking, rise up behind her to pull at the ribbon ties that lace up the back of the dress. It’s such a natural, instinctual movement, Regina thinks Emma could have been doing it her entire life. Though she’s fairly sure the amount of dresses Emma has actually worn is minimal and those without zips even less. 

“Yes.” She hums her approval as the material slides down Emma’s form, pooling at her feet like a second skin. “Good to know you can follow some instructions.”

Eventually, Regina will teach her not only to follow instructions, but to anticipate them. She will have Emma not only pliant and willing, but responsive and eager, begging and desperate. 

“I’ll give you tonight.” Regina tells her generously as she pulls Emma’s shoulders from the wall and propels her to the bed, pushing her onto her back and following her down, giving her no space. “To get this weak little flower act out of your system.”

Fear, resignation and defiance stare back at her, from Emma’s still unblinking eyes as she climbs up and straddles the body on her bed. 

“But fair warning, Emma, I chose you because in every action, everything you ever did in Storybrooke, was full of fight and energy and passion, always that passion.”

She grabs Emma’s wrist and holds them over her head, lengthening her body to match, feeling the stretch of sinew and bone. 

“And that’s what I’m after.”

***

Henry bounces on the balls of his feet. 

This outcome is better than he could have hoped for. He and Emma are leaving. He has lost his mother, that is unmistakable, but he knows now that she always was and always will be the bad guy, the evil witch, the villain. 

Given the very real choice, he has chosen Emma and Mary Margaret and David and Ruby and the dozens of other characters that will be waiting for him when they arrive. He suspects he made that choice the moment he bit the turnover and everything else has just been confirmation. 

He cannot live with an Evil Queen that keeps prisoners locked up, the reality of her deeds staring him in the face and harsher than the broad brush strokes of cartoon villainy that he had been reading for months. 

With this in mind, he bounces, a large, heavy trunk at his feet as the carriage draws up. Four large, imposing horses snuffle hot air out of their noses, black and muscular as they stamp their hooves. One heavily armoured guard sits on the front ledge with the reigns in his hands, his face hidden by a helmet. 

He realises, suddenly, that he has never seen one of their faces. In fact, he has only seen two faces in the weeks he has been here. 

His face rises to the sky, feels the sun on his skin, and it’s the first time he can breathe properly. 

Footsteps break his reverie and he turns, unable to suppress his excitement. 

“Emma! Are you ready?”

She is standing next to his adopted mother and he pauses. He’s not an idiot; he knows there is something wrong, something dark and unspoken that has had a hold of her since she’d been taken from the dungeons. But that will end, surely, once she is reunited with her parents. 

In her hands she is clutching a small carry bag and Henry quirks his head. 

“Is that all you’re bringing?”

Her throat bobbles and she forces her lips into a smile. 

“My trunks are already loaded, kiddo.”

Henry nods at that. He doesn’t know what to say, but something needs to be said. This is a goodbye of sorts and the feeling of finality hangs thick and suffocating. Emma kneels down without warning and pulls him in. 

Not only does he permit it, he bends to her, moulds himself into her arms in a way he had never allowed himself to do back in Storybrooke. She’s shaking as she runs her hand through his hair and cups his cheek, a truer gesture from her than it had been from his mother. 

“Tell her.” She whispers in his ear. “Something, anything, whatever you need to say, because you won’t see her again.”

As she stands up, planting her hands on each of his shoulders for support, Henry sees the edge of a black gloved hand hovering high at her back. A split second, then it is gone, and he is left puzzled at the gesture. 

The Evil Queen, his brain tries to remind him as he looks up, but he has a decade’s worth of memories that tell him different and he launches forward one last time, wraps his arm around her waist and holds tightly. 

She still smells like his mother. 

“Take him.” Comes the hiss above him, as he feels her push at his shoulders to get him away. “Take him, Emma, before it’s too late.”

He doesn’t quite fight as Emma pulls him towards the carriage, but he doesn’t make it easy either. They climb up, his hand resting on the shiny black door, before sliding in and scooting across the soft leather seats. He hides his face against the window so she cannot see the tears as he feels her weight settle down next to him. 

His body jerks as she slams the door. 

“It’s going to be okay, Henry.” She promises softly, a little sadly. “This is going to be much better for you.”

They don’t talk for several more hours and it isn’t until he finally turns around to see her leaning against her own window, shoulders shaking silently, that he realises she has been crying too. 

***

“Snow!”

Charming’s voice reverberates around the castle walls, making her snap to attention from the map spread out on the table in front of her. Red’s head lifts as well, eyes wide with questioning. 

“The barrier.” Snow breathes, hopeful. “They’ve broken it!”

They both turn and head towards the door. 

“Snow!” Charming roars again, louder and closer, and she can hear his footsteps falling heavily on the cobblestones. “They’re here!”

The words confuse her, so starkly different to any conversation they’ve had since their return. It has all been about clerics and magic and the possibility of releasing Rumplestiltskin if they got desperate enough, temporarily. 

But her eyes catch sight of a window as she passes it and she stops in her tracks. 

Over the path that crosses the water, the long single road, she sees the dark carriage and the horses frothing at the mouth as the guard whips them into a frenzy. 

Her run turns into a full sprint then, feet slapping against cobblestones hard as she gathers her skirts up over her ankles, not bothering to watch where she is going or who she barrels past to get there. She has known this castle all her life, her feet know where to land. 

Charming stops in his mission to find her in order to let her past, then follows swiftly at her back. 

She arrives breathless, panting, as she stands at the edge of the long drive, her feet feel the grass underneath her toes. All too late, she realises her vulnerability. If this is a trap, she is defenceless. The familiar snick of a sword leaving a scabbard behind her makes her grateful for her husband once again. 

As the carriage stops, larger than she remembers it ever being, Snow holds her breath. 

It escapes her a moment later, a large lungful of air in sweet relief as she watches both Henry and Emma climb down. 

She pulls Henry to her, the safest option, in a tight embrace that he returns. It does not escape her notice that he is shaking. Otherwise, he looks fine. He has obviously been cared for and that eases her mind somewhat. After a few seconds, she releases him to the care of a people waiting for their prince. 

And she looks up to face Emma. 

Her heart freezes. What can be said about Henry cannot be said about Emma. She has not been cared for, not in any stretch of the imagination. Weight has fallen from her, quickly and harshly, her eyes are dark and sunken, her entire body posture is wrong, and there are bruises fading on her skin. 

Regina, her brain slams back into planning, will pay dearly. 

“Oh, Emma.” She breathes, unable to contain herself any longer, reaching out to pull the other woman forward. “Emma.”

It is their first meeting as mother and daughter and Snow wishes it were different, that the body she embraces was not so stiff or awkward, that the tears in her eyes were tears of joy and not this helpless horror. She alone, out of the crowd that is forming behind her, can attest to the true horror of Regina’s cruelty. 

After a count of four, Snow feels a shudder in Emma, an intake of breath and then Emma seems to melt, becoming fluid as her limbs throw themselves around Snow and hold on tightly. They begin to shake and Snow realises the force of Emma’s breakdown, the sobs that wrack her body. 

She looks over her shoulder. 

“We need to get her inside.”

***

As the afternoon progresses, things calm down. Emma retreats into herself and remains quiet, content to sit at the round table and watch everyone else talk, chatter constantly, and let Henry pick up the task of filling everyone in. 

Snow can’t believe the story, she cannot accept Henry’s continued insistence that Regina will now let them go, has already let them go, that she will not come after them. In fact, that she will not seek out anyone. 

It seems anticlimactic, in such a way that Snow is suspicious. There is something wrong. There has to be a hidden catch. There is no way that Regina would give everything back to her, allow her to have her family, Charming and Emma and Henry, without exacting some form of price from her. 

She looks to Emma for confirmation, but the woman has her head leaning to the side, staring out the window and barely listening. 

They eat dinner, conversation loud and boisterous and beer flowing, a celebration that has been delayed since their arrival back to this land. Snow watches eagle eyed as Henry eats, talks, and looks around with amazement. Occasionally, she catches him throwing a concerned look to his mother, but otherwise he seems genuinely okay. 

The dread gets heavier in her chest the darker the day gets, as the sun goes down. 

“Come on, Henry.” Snow finally takes his hand, with one last look to Emma to see if she has even noticed the droop of his eyelids and sag of his head. “I’ll show you where you can sleep tonight. We’ll fix a proper place for you tomorrow, okay?”

He nods wearily, amiable and unresisting, allowing himself to be led away, to be tucked in to a make-shift bed. It’s crowded in the castle at the moment, everyone seems to gravitate here and they aren’t turning anyone away. 

“I haven’t slept in weeks.” He murmurs sleepily, an excuse. “But now… it’ll be better. Emma’s okay now, she’s okay.”

And then he’s gone. 

Snow sets her jaw and strides back to the crowded hall. She needs answers and she will shake Emma back into awareness if it is the last thing she does. This is not the Emma she knows, the woman who rode into Storybrooke in a yellow bug and demanded attention, who stood up to both Regina and Mr. Gold when no one else would. 

She needn’t have worried, it seems, because the moment she enters the room is the moment Emma does snap to attention. 

“You’ll have to restrain him.” She says, looking straight at Snow. “Tomorrow, when I leave, he won’t like it.”

She quirks her head, uncomprehendingly. 

“Leave?” The word sticks in her mouth, a bad taste. “But you just got back… I just got you back.”

_What a pretty blanket._

Without speaking, without taking her eyes from Snow, Emma reaches up to the high neck of the gown she’s wearing and pulls it down. It takes a second for Snow to fully comprehend what she’s seeing, but the three solid gold threads of the band around her throat are unmistakable. 

It hits her in the stomach, steals her breath, and she stumbles as a roar of voices and protests rise from the crowd. 

“No.” She won’t accept it, she won’t. “No, Emma.”

“Me.” Emma’s voice is deadened, emotionless, a stark contrast to the sobbing body of earlier. “That’s the deal. Me for Henry. For everyone. For you.”

And this, Snow realizes, is Emma’s grief, the systematic giving up any hope she had. 

It seems that her entire life, before Storybrooke, before the twenty eight repetitive years of nothing until Emma arrived, she has known that Regina would take everything, would never let her forget that one betrayal. 

She wishes now, not for the first time, that she had never opened her mouth, that Regina had let her die on that horse. 

“We have to do something.” Grumpy slams his fist on the table. “I say we finally let Rumplestiltskin free.”

Gasps follow his announcement, but Snow is looking to Emma and sees the slow shake of her head. 

“I already saw him.” She says it quietly, a whisper in the din of everyone else, but they all stop to listen without question. “Mr. Gold, Rumplestiltskin. Whoever, I just… I’ve already seen him.”

“You made a deal?” 

Charming has come to stand by Snow, his hand around her waist holding her up, She can hear it in his voice, that unspoken, _it was obviously the wrong one_. And she hates him in that second, has to remind herself that he’s not David, that he’s not responsible for anything that David did. 

“No deal.” Emma explains. “The opposite, actually. I told him that I did not agree to any deals being made in my name.”

Her eyelids drop, Snow closing out the world momentarily, unwilling to let them see the last of her hope slipping away. 

Of course. Regina had to know that they would try to break the contract any way they could, that they would be desperate. And now, no deals can be made on behalf of someone who does not agree. Even ancient and dark magic has rules and this is one of them. 

“Out.” She opens her eyes with the sudden order. “Everybody out.”

There are rumbles of protest, for weeks they have gathered and planned and shared as a community, but this is private and, for the most part, it is respected. 

They are left alone, the three of them, and Snow sits next to Emma, her hand reaching out and hesitating above her head, wanting desperately to stroke her hair. Something, anything, and she hates how unsure of herself she is, how awkward they are with each other. 

Charming is at Emma’s other side and Snow looks at them, father and daughter, and sees the stress ride him hard, the clench of his jaw. The similarities between them leave her breathless. 

_You do kind of have my chin._

She begins slowly, softly. 

“Did… did Regina explain to you the details of…?” Her hand wafts gently in the air around her neck. “The contract?” 

She watches her daughter nod, her grown daughter, who she has only known for less than a year, who has led a harsh life, who was already brittle and hard and slightly broken before she came back to them. 

The injustice of it eats at her. 

“It’s unbreakable.” The words are flat and rote, parroted from a lecture obviously drilled into Emma. “It’s very powerful magic. If I break the contract, or enter into a plan to break the contract, I will be pulled back to a designated place.”

“It is powerful magic.” Charming finally speaks. “Too powerful for a simple binding spell, but probably not unwarranted if she thought…”

But Emma shakes her head. 

“It’s not just a binding spell, she doesn’t just want me at the castle.” There is only one logical follow through, all three of them know it, but the words break something in Snow just the same. “It takes me back to her bedchamber.”

This, this is the final price, and it is too high and she can do nothing to stop it. 

“She can’t do that.” Charming insists. “You can’t bind an unwilling person with an indentured collar.”

But the words are meaningless, because Snow knows that there are ways to make a person willing that have nothing to do with choice or free will. And Emma has already told them, she did it for Henry, for the people, for Snow. 

And now, as Regina has obviously planned, Snow must live with the knowledge that while she has her Charming and her castle and peace among her land, even a grandson at her side, it all comes at the cost of her daughter, taken once again, living in a servitude she does not want. 

Again, repeatedly, without end. 

It is not something that Snow thinks she can live with for very long. 

There is no end to that woman’s cruelty. 

***

Slowly, surely, people trickle back into the room. 

Light slips away completely and lamps are lit. There is a silence that hangs heavy in the room, but Emma is grateful for it, for the faces around her. She cannot sleep and they do not leave her alone. They sit a silent vigil, her mother’s hand in hers, and this is the memory that will keep her when she finally has to leave. 

It comes too soon, the sunlight, a cacophony of sound pours in from the windows. Sounds Emma has never heard in her life with such clarity, birds and animals and nature. 

And one she has, the definite hooves of the carriage that brought her here. 

She stands up. 

“I’ll wake Henry.” It’s the last thing she wants to do. It’s the most important. “I have to say goodbye.”

***

She has little taste for food this evening, sitting at the large table all by herself, and no taste for wine either. 

Regina gives a sigh as she swirls the goblet in her hand. 

The table is too big, the hall is too big, the castle is too big. No, not big, just quiet. Her father is gone, Henry is gone, everyone gone. A few short years, she refuses to admit decades, the hall was full of people and voices and laughter. 

Not hers, never hers, they’d stopped asking for her laughter long before her husband had… died. 

Sometimes it seemed that even faking a life was preferable to the truth, dutifully sitting on the Queen’s throne, playing nice to Snow as she grew and Leopold as he grew distant, as opposed to what came after, everything stripped bare and nowhere to go but down into darkness. Maybe that’s why she had struggled so desperately to hold on to Storybrooke, because it was easier to fake a life than live one. 

The goblet drops to the table with a clink of metal on wood and then she stands up. 

Maybe it’s easier to fake it, she thinks, but it’s much less satisfying. Finally letting go of the fake concern for Snow, giving in to the need to take her down, felt much better than anything she had done, before or since. Well, anything but…

No. They deserved it. They all deserved it and she deserves the comfort of her vengeance most of all. 

The heels on her boots click as she walks, counting out the beat of blood pumping through her veins, striding through the palace. Patience is not her strong suit; it has never been her strong suit. 

She holds her breath as she throws open the door to her private chambers. Gratified, she realises that everything has been done as requested, to the letter, and she smiles. Of course it is; her guards are spectacular.

Emma’s head flies up at her entrance, fear and hatred warring for dominance on her face. 

“What?” She spits. “What did I do wrong? I did everything you asked!”

Her pale skin glows in the fading dusk, moonlight and firelight bouncing off skin slick with sweat. The fire is raging high in the fireplace and Emma is strung naked to the rack nearby, arms above her head and stretched out wide to each corner. 

Regina circles her, taking her time. A quick estimate has her guessing that Emma has been hanging here for nearly two hours. She must be ready. 

“Everything?” She queries, eventually, stroking her own chin in consideration. 

“Yes!” Emma is desperate and betrayed. “Of course, exactly as you said.”

“Mmm.” On top of the mantle, her fingers close over the thin rod and pick it up. “I’m sure you did.”

When she turns around, Emma’s eyes widen at the sight of the riding crop as Regina holds the handle in her right hand and draws her left up to the very tip and back down again. It is delicious, the way that Emma shrinks back, tries to hide herself from view even though she is as bare as a person can be. 

“Don’t think of this as a punishment, Emma.” Their eyes meet and Regina smiles. “Think of it as a lesson.”

The heat has warmed Emma’s blood, thinned it and drawn it to the surface, making her skin a deep, rosy red. Regina bites her bottom lip as she trails the end of the crop over Emma’s shoulder, up her right arm, and down against her side into her waist and over her hip. 

A trail of white blazes behind it, before disappearing, and Emma twists in her bonds, tries to squirm away. 

Oh, if only she knew. 

“Did you tell them everything?” Regina asks again. “Every little detail?”

“Yes.” Emma rushes to answer, quick to please. “Exactly.”

Without warning, Regina flicks her wrist, drawing the crop back and slamming it against Emma’s hip hard. It cracks up around her side ribs and across her back. A pained cry breaks the air, escaping hoarse and caught, choked back, as Emma’s swallows it. 

A bright red line is left in its wake, raised and angry looking. Regina’s fingertip traces it lightly, revelling in the shivers that follow. 

“You didn’t leave out any details? To spare them?”

“Yes… No!” Bitten out. “Everything, to everyone, exc…”

Emma gasps, trying to eat the word back. 

Regina quirks her brow. 

“Except…?”

Hanging her head, Emma tenses the rest of her body as she exhales. 

“Except Henry. I didn’t tell him everything, just the basics, I couldn’t.”

There’s a moment of silence, two, of heady expectation as Emma’s face crumples, scrunching up tight. 

Lifting the crop, Regina points the end of it under Emma’s chin and uses it to guide her face up again. 

“Acceptable. But the others?”

“Yes.” Emma practically spits it. “They know every detail. Are you happy?”

A whistle skims the air as the crop rises and falls again. This time it cross over the welt on her back, making a crooked, raised X. Another cry is choked back, swallowed, bitten off. The lower left corner bit deeply and Regina watches, fascinated, as a small trickle of blood begins to ooze near the divot above Emma’s kidney. 

“Ecstatic. Count to five.”

“What?” Emma whips her face to look at her. “Five?”

An intake of breath and Regina does her own little countdown in her head, reminding herself that it would serve no purpose to lose control this quickly. 

“Five, Emma, the number. Count out loud. The longer you make me wait, the worse it will be. If I have to repeat myself again, tonight or ever, you will be sorry.”

A puzzled frown follows, but she’s still deliciously compliant. 

“One.” 

Emma’s voice breaks into a cry as the crop comes down across her shoulder blades, softer than before, but still harder that Regina had planned. Punishment for the delay. 

“…Two…”

Crack, parallel to the first one, a little lower down. Emma bites down on this cry. 

“Three… Four… Five.”

Each number receives its own little whip, quick and painful, but not breaking the skin. Regina looks at the horizontal pattern rising, red against pale flesh, the last one just above the swell of Emma’s buttocks. By the end, Emma has stopped holding back the sobs. It’s not a great avalanche of hysteria, no, Regina is thrilled to note that Emma gives it up one sound per slice of the crop, restrained, just a moan of pain. 

In the silence, Emma pants. 

“And Rumplestiltskin?”

There isn’t even a pause this time. 

“I told them.”

Whip, crack. Emma has learned to flinch at the whistle in the air, before the touch of the rod on her skin. She’s a quick study. It’s a full scream this time, throaty and real, as the tip once again pierces flesh. 

“And?”

“I made them see.” She begs it, insists it, trying desperately to find the words that will make Regina happy. “There’s no hope, they can’t win, they shouldn’t even try.”

Regina leans in close, whispers in an ear plastered with sweat slick hair.

“Seven.”

She is rewarded with a small, broken moan, but there’s no hesitation as Emma begins to count and Regina pays in kind, each strike just a little more forceful until the last three draw blood. A lot of it. Emma’s tears are real, slipping down her cheeks. 

Turning the rod over in her hand, Regina slides the weathered soft, wide handle gently across reddened, broken skin. Sobs turn into a moan, a broken hiccupping breath, and Regina coos softly into the heated skin behind Emma’s neck. 

“And what do you think, Emma? Will that be enough? Will that stop them?”

She feels rather than sees Emma bite her lip, the flinch of her whole body, as she lets her head fall back and looks up to the frame of the rack.

“The truth, Emma.” Regina reminds her. “And quickly now.”

“No.” It bursts out, reluctant. “They won’t stop trying.”

It’s loud and messy, that gasp Emma gives in as she prepares for the next round of attacks. 

But Regina drops the riding crop onto the floor with a loud thump and her palms hover delicately over Emma’s hips, dipping into her waist as the woman shudders, spreading out over her ribs and up her arms. And, as she sucks a messy kiss on the side of her neck, Regina frees Emma’s wrists. 

The woman drops like a sack to the floor, curled up on her stomach in what would be a fetal position if she dared stretch the skin of her back. Hard, wheezing pants wrack her body, and confused eyes swirl up to look at Regina standing over her. 

“There are fresh towels and clean water in your chambers, Emma. Clean yourself up as best you can and sleep well. I get the feeling we’re going to have visitors sooner rather than later.”

Regina swirls on her heels, striding towards her bathroom, ready to prepare for bed. 

“What…?” Emma has regained some control of her windpipe, though her breath still hitches as she props herself up on her forearms. “What was the lesson? I did what you wanted, I did everything you wanted…”

“That is the lesson.” Her voice is not unkind, but it lacks the reassurance Emma is clearly looking for. “It didn’t matter what you did or said or didn’t, what I did tonight, I did because I wanted to do it. And it will always be that way, Emma. Your actions, your deeds and thoughts and words, mean nothing. I do what I want with you, now.”

She doesn’t turn this time, merely waits and watches passively as Emma drags herself into a crawl, then a hunched standing position, and hobbles naked and bleeding out of her door. 

***

End chapter one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The contract was for my obedience, not my submission."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.   
> **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** This isn’t about gentleness or pleasure or sex, this is about frustration and need and revenge.

Snow dismounts, patting Matilde’s flanks as she loops the reigns over the mounts in the stables. She takes the time to water her horse and provide it with fresh straw. 

This castle, all steel and cement, is as familiar to her childhood as the one she lives in now. 

She had been ready to leave the minute they’d gotten word that the barriers had been removed, but it has taken her this long to convince James and Henry and Grumpy that she is safe alone. She’s not entirely sure they’re convinced even now, but they have grudgingly allowed her to come. 

After several seconds of indecision, Snow leaves most of her weapons attached to the bridle, allowing only a short sword hidden under her riding cloak. If Regina is good for her word, then she will have no need of it. If she isn’t, well, no amount of forged weaponry will help her. 

It is a far cry from paste and popsicle sticks. 

Nobody stops her, nobody impedes her path as she walks up to the doors of the castle. She had never entertained the thought that she would return here, to the scene of her father’s death, the realisation that over a decade of loving Regina had been false, that her life of ease was over. 

In one fell swoop, Regina wiped the entire history from this castle, all the good memories and she replaced them with spite. 

She cannot think of that now. That is not her purpose. 

Both hands press on the heavy weight of the wood and the doors swing slowly inward. She’s surprised, half expecting there to be locks barring her way. 

“Snow White.” And there she is, the wickedest of all step mothers. “I was wondering how long it would take you.”

But Snow has no time for this woman, not yet, not now. 

“Where is she?” Even as she speaks, her eyes scan the entry hallway for a sign, some give away tell. “Where is my daughter?”

There is a disturbing lack of signs pointing the way, no little arrow proclaiming ‘Emma stashed here’. Frustration and defeat make her look at the blank face of Regina. 

“She’s resting.” And there’s something obscene about the way Regina says that word, nearly suggestive, obviously designed to incite her. “But she’s waiting for you in the west hall. I’m sure you remember the way.”

With that, she sweeps away and Snow is left baffled, almost disappointed at the lack of confrontation. She needs to do serious battle with that woman. Her brain pokes her again, reminds her that it’s too soon and she needs to be patient. 

It’s too quiet, she realises, too empty in the way her footfalls echo all around her. She hasn’t even seen one of Regina’s ever present guards, the servants that must be here somewhere. Her senses go on high alert well aware she is the fly in the spider’s lair. 

She’s almost surprised to find Emma in the west hall where Regina said she would be, sitting upright at the dining table with a book open on the surface, skimming the pages. Waiting. Just as she was described. Snow doesn’t expect Emma to jump up and race to her, but she’s a little thrown when Emma doesn’t rise at all. 

Emma smiles instead, brilliantly and brightly, a little too big. 

Already Snow knows something is off. Something vital is wrong and she cannot put her mind on it as she walks closer, her eyes scanning the woman sitting there. There’s something a little too stiff, too formal about the way she’s sitting, the way she’s trying too hard. 

“Emma? Are you okay?”

The smile only flickers once. 

“I’m fine.” It’s a smooth, velvet lie and Emma gives a quick, sharp nod of the head. Snow notes that she’s careful not to move any other part of her. “How’s Henry? Did he calm down?”

“He’s okay.” She answers, a calm voice meant to reassure. “He’s not thrilled, but James is working on making him accept it. I think it’s helping him accept it, too.”

Something hardens in Emma’s eyes, crystalizes as Snow pulls out the chair opposite her and sits down. 

“I’m fine.” She insists again. “There’s nothing to accept.”

Snow’s heart breaks just a little. 

“I know.” She remembers all those months with Emma, the easy friendship, the camaraderie, the nights of discussions and shared cooking and learning each other as friends. She wants it, she wants it all back. “Nobody got what they wanted out of this. You least of all. And I’m sorry for that.”

But this… this is something different. This chasm between them seems unpassable now, it hangs heavy over both of them. Emma’s walls are back, stronger than ever and Snow wants to howl with it. This is abandonment again, everything that Emma doesn’t need. 

Strange, how she was a better mother to this woman when neither of them thought it was true.

There is nothing left to do but start again, pick up a metaphorical pick axe and begin chipping away. The wall will be twice as thick now, calloused over like a scab, and Emma will protect it even more. 

For this very reason, and this reason alone, Snow cannot fight Regina. She cannot wage battles and wars she has no hope of winning. Not yet, not anytime soon. She must be seen, at the very least by Emma, to accept the unacceptable. 

She has to bridge that gap.

“I like your dress.” Snow watches Emma’s head angle downwards to look, not bending her neck at all. “It’s not quite red leather…”

A ghost of a smile flickers over her daughter’s face, something smaller and thinner than she’s seen since she entered the room, but infinitely more real. 

“Yeah, well.” And Emma twists the corner of her mouth into a wry amusement. “I figure there’s not really a mall nearby.”

Released air takes place of actual laughter, but it is unmistakable in its shared state. For a second, maybe two, Snow sees them healing. It eases something inside her, something that had taken hold of her. 

“We have our ways. I can get you some rawhide.” Snow grins, mischievous. “I’ve been known to rock the leather here, myself.”

At Emma’s arched eyebrows and clear shocked disbelief, Snow has to grin as she spreads her hands out and leans closer. 

“I’m not really a school teacher, Emma.” This is almost enjoyable. “I had to survive in the woods somehow, if that meant protective clothing and shacking up with dwarves… who am I to argue?”

She can see the questions spring up in Emma’s eyes, too many to voice all at once, and Snow thinks that there will be many hours that the two of them can spend like this, calm and comfortable, relearning each other. 

Of course, Emma will need to be taught many things, and Snow tries not to do this to herself, tries not to plan the future, days spent taking Emma bow hunting, learning survival in the forest, sharing secrets, teaching her to stitch her own clothes, sitting next to a crackling fire on a winter night and sharing roasted nuts.

Because it won’t be that way, not really. 

“There are so many things.” Emma echoes her thoughts, a little wistfully. “Like, who are the dwarves? Did I know them? Who’s Dr. Whale? Did you really die and get saved by a kiss? But… really… what do I call you?”

And that’s it, that’s the most important question. Snow knows what she wants to say, what would be her choice if she had it, but it’s not hers. 

“What do you want to call me?”

To Emma’s credit, she thinks about it, does not jump right in. 

“I’ve only ever known you as Mary Margaret and that’s the name I hear.” The distaste in her mouth must show on her face, because Emma immediately continues. “But that’s not you, is it?”

If she closes her eyes and thinks about it, really thinks, she can see that world. Unchanging, ceaselessly and cruelly the same, year after year after year and none of them knowing or being able to realise it. 

She thinks about being that woman, small and timid, hiding like one of her little birds in the nest of her small, studio apartment from the outside world, from Regina’s pointed barbs, always staying in limbo and not ever finding peace with her life and never knowing why. 

Always that undercurrent of yearning that never went away until they’d woken up back here. 

“No.” It wasn’t all bad, that prison, there were some moments of peace and happiness. “No, it’s not.”

The flames crackle in the fireplace beside them, filling the air with the crisp, green smell of burning pine. 

“Everybody calls me Snow.” She says at last, because there has to be something. “You can try that. It’s what Henry settled on. I think it’s easier for him than anything else, because that’s what he hears the others call me.”

“Well, what did you expect?” And they both swivel guiltily to the voice in the doorway. “She’s a twenty-eight year old woman you only met a few months ago. Did you want her to call you Mommy?”

It happens before her eyes, Emma slamming that wall right back up, the fluidness that had seeped into her posture gone. Stiff and rigid and unmoving, Emma watches Regina stalk into the room. Snow bites her lip, holding desperately onto the words she wants to spew all over the woman, as she watches one delicate hand trail across Emma’s shoulders. 

And the destruction it leaves in its wake. 

Emma won’t meet her eyes anymore, face angled down to the forgotten book on the table top with a flinch, and her arms clench in closer to her body. There’s smugness to the way in which Regina looks at Snow, daring, challenging her to say something. 

“It’s getting late in the day.” And Regina takes control of the room, with a dismissive glare at Snow and her hand coming to rest on the nape of Emma’s neck. “We don’t want you riding out there alone too late at night, Snow, with all those terrible beasts out there.”

What she should say, what every cell in her body is screaming at her to say, is that she’s not going anywhere, she’s staying here with her daughter where she’s needed. But she can’t, her eyes keep getting draw to the obscenity that is Regina’s hand caressing her daughter’s neck. 

And the briefest look of pain Emma keeps trying to hide at the movement. 

“Yes.” Snow murmurs, placing her hands on the edge of the table to stand up. Emma’s face doesn’t move, but her eyes slide up, following her. “I should probably go.”

Casually, so very casually, she rounds the table, coming to stand with her back against the edge, facing Emma directly. It’s a soft tug, easier than she’d thought, as Emma allows herself to be pulled up to standing, into an embrace. 

The juxtaposition is shocking, her daughter is taller than her, and she has never known it any other way. 

Keeping her eyes locked on Regina, Snow moves her hands across the plains of Emma’s back until she comes across a sticky patch. 

“Wait.” Emma stiffens in her arms, trying to push her away, but Snow is already turning her around. “Please, wait.”

She knows this is happening only because Regina is allowing it to, that it’s probably the only reason she was allowed this far to begin with. She is supposed to see this. 

“No.” Emma tries to stop it happening, but the movement has made her arch in pain she unable to hide, clutching the edge of the table. “It’s nothing. Please…”

Nothing, except Snow can already see the lines of red seeping through the back of the yellow dress. Her fingers shake as she pulls at the ties holding it together, pulls the edges of the material back and away from Emma’s skin. 

It’s a show, it’s all for her. 

“How long?” But she already knows the answer, it’s written in the angry slashes, the swollen, burning skin and the infection that’s spreading like jagged red lightning. “How long have you been like this?”

The fight goes all out of Emma as she deflates, no longer needing to continue the pretence, and her body sinks into the chair, slumped over the table. 

“Since I got back.” 

Two days. Snow shuts down for just a second, eyes closed as she breathes, tries to find some of that strength people keep telling her she has. 

“You can’t do this.” She insists. “You can’t treat her like this.”

And Regina laughs at Snow. 

“I can do anything I like, she agreed to it.” Just to taunt her, to taunt them both, Regina picks up a length of Emma’s hair and twirls it around her finger. “So says the pretty gold band around her neck and the nice little contract she signed of her own. Free. Will.”

And that’s it, because she can’t take it anymore. 

“There was nothing free about it!” She steps forward, regardless of her own safety, pushing into Regina’s space. “You forced her! You…”

“No.” Another soft, quiet plea from Emma.” Please stop.”

It slams back into her exactly what she’s doing, picking a fight with Regina, who will let Snow walk out of this door unharmed and unmarked, but keeps Emma here to exact her revenge. She’s only making it worse, whatever will happen. 

Snow breathes in and then out, pulling out the chair next to Emma and sitting down, ignoring Regina as she covers the top of Emma’s head with her hand and leans in close, laying her face on the table next to her so they can see each other eye to eye. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“And why, may I ask, are you so upset with this whole deal?” Regina is unflappable and evil and too smug. “All Emma did was sell herself to save _your_ kingdom. Correct me if I’m wrong, Snow, but didn’t you sell her out before she was even born?”

She freezes. 

“That’s right.” Regina snaps her fingers. “You did! Gave her name to none other than Rumplestiltskin for nothing more than the idea of hope for your kingdom and the people in it. For Prince Charming and your _true love_.”

She wants to shake her head, to deny the claims as Emma’s eyes narrows with the words that sink in, but she can’t. And Regina leans in close to both of them, eyes pointed and gleaming. 

“You should be glad you’re under my protection, Princess. Because you don’t even want to know what he’d do with you if he ever got free. And you, handed to him on a silver platter by your very own mother.”

“Stop it.” She insists, lamely. “That’s enough.”

But she’s scared that the damage is already done, Emma has heard and she has no chance to explain it to her, the details of it, the desperation that had come, but she has no time to change this. There’s a wind blowing around them that has nothing to do with possible draughts. 

If she still had her hair, tendrils of it would be floating around her face, as it is she feels compelled to stand. 

Regina has tired of her. Snow has served her purpose. 

“I’ll be back.” She promises Emma, trying to convey the need to keep an open mind until they can talk again. “I’ll come back soon.”

“No, you won’t.” Regina pulls herself up tall, intimidation at its finest. “Emma is free, true, but she lives in my castle and you and yours are not welcome here, Snow White.”

There is nothing left to do, her dismissal is obvious and final. 

“Please.” She whispers, trying desperately to find something in there of the woman she once knew. “Please take care of her at least. I know you know what it’s like to have…”

Snow realises her mistake before she can stop herself, before she can even properly process the memory, the feeling of being young and confused again and seeing what she should never. Innocence lost. 

“Get out!” Regina yells it amid the growing storm that surrounds her, all false pretences gone and hatred clearly visible. “Get out of here and never come back!”

She is thrown towards the door and has no choice but to leave, in a walk that is almost a run, pushed out by the strength of air and invisible forces. There is no way to know if her desperate calls of goodbye to Emma are heard over the sound of Regina grabbing her and dragging her to her feet.

It is a long, lonely ride home.

***

“You planned it.” The skirt of Emma’s dress swishes against their legs as Regina pulls her by the elbow. “You wanted her to see that.”

Regina doesn’t even bother to roll her eyes. 

“Of course I planned it.”

They are practically the same size, but Emma is dwarfed by Regina’s power. 

She wonders what will happen once Emma eventually finds a foothold in this land. Back in Storybrooke, this woman was fearless and foolhardy and challenging and here she is cowed and groundless. But it won’t be that way for long. 

There is something there, an energy of sorts, simmering beneath the surface that even Regina can feel. 

The doors to her bedchamber close, slamming shut with an unmistakable finality. She tosses Emma further into the room with a vicious swing of her arm and Emma reacts by twisting her body, elbows in close to her torso, trying desperately to avoid stretching out the skin of her back as she stumbles. 

“Don’t waste my time.” A sneer on her lips as she gestures to the soft yellow material that is now open and gaping at the back, striped with red. “Take it all off.”

Emma rewards her with such a baleful glare that she cannot help but laugh. 

“Well…” She reaches forward lazily. “If you can’t do it yourself…”

But Emma twists out of her reach, slowly and gingerly reaching up to pull the shoulders of the gown free. Regina’s eyes slide down seconds after the material, taking in the expanse of revealed skin. She doesn’t even need to order it done slowly, that part takes care of itself. 

Tall and slender, Emma’s body is taut in the right places, soft in others, already healing after a few days’ worth of decent feeding. She’s made of lines and curves, sloping shoulders and striated abdomen, an oval belly button blinking with movement. 

And all of it topped with a crowning glory of long, blonde hair. Usually it hangs in careless curls, but now it falls straight, already thick and full like her mother’s. It would look stunning, she thinks, piled on top of Emma’s head, braided into intricate patterns. Until then, Regina might have to invest in some form of magical curling iron. 

The best part of Emma, she thinks, is those eyes, full of hatred and helplessness, shooting fire at her even as she obeys. 

“There.” As she gives a little curtsy, the whole thing is so preposterously defiant Regina almost forgets not to be amused. “Reg…”

But she has her limits and Emma finds herself in the grip of Regina’s hands, her right clamped tightly over Emma’s chin, her left sitting heavy on the side of Emma’s face. 

“People call me ‘Your Highness’.” There’s something beautiful in the fear she causes as she leans in closer, close enough to kiss if she chose. “But those lips, Emma, I think I’d like to hear them call me, ‘My Queen’.”

To emphasise her point, she trails a thumb over Emma’s mouth, full and quivering. 

“Go on.” She encourages. “Say it.”

Emma meets her eyes and for a full three seconds, Regina thinks Emma might fight or resist.

“My Queen.” 

It’s bitten out and resentful, but it’s there and Regina smiles beautifully as a reward. Letting go, she shoves Emma back towards the rack and watches as the woman finally catches on. 

“No.” True fear now, Emma has lost her bravado. “Please, Re… My Queen, no.”

She grab’s Emma’s wrist and pulls her over, large forceful steps, ignoring the cry of pain that results. 

“I don’t believe it was a request, my dear.” There’s only the slightest resistance, more of a reluctance really, when she lifts Emma’s arm up and closes the shackle around her wrist. “Remember, there is a price for disobedience.”

There is a bitten back moan, a whimper that chokes itself on a cry when she lifts Emma’s second arm up. And Regina knows why, she can see it as she circles the woman, comes to stand at her back. The scabs have cracked already, opened, stretched beyond their limit. 

She trails one fingernail along a soft hip, the skin there unblemished and flawless. 

“Does it hurt, Emma?”

“Yes!” A hiss, Emma’s teeth come out to bite at her bottom lip. “You know it does.”

That’s when she turns to pick up the next implement. A two inch wide leather strap, softened over time, slightly worn, and Emma’s eyes widen with horror even before Regina drags it over her belly. It feels familiar in her hand, welcome, even the smell of it hearkens her back. 

“No, no, please.” Emma’s reduced to open begging now and it moves something inside Regina, slides it right into place. “I can’t do it again, please.”

“I think you can. And you will, because I say you will.” Regina whispers in her ear, coming to stand on Emma’s left, bringing the strap into her right hand towards Emma’s back. “There’s only one rule here and that rule is that you won’t get any more until you beg me for it, until you make me believe you really want it.”

Her left hand is at Emma’s front and she slides it down her neck, feels the woman’s pulse race against her palm, between the webbing of her thumb and forefinger. If she squeezed at all, she would cut off the air supply, but she doesn’t. 

The heel of her hand comes to rest in the divot between Emma’s collar bones underneath the cold gold band and her fingers wrap around the side of her neck. Emma’s whole body tenses, tightens and stiffens when Regina draws her right hand back, aiming high on her shoulders. 

She could tell her that the tighter the body is, the harsher the sting, that the muscles absorb more of the blow the looser they are, but that information is useless for this exercise and she likes watching Emma squirm in anticipation of the pain. 

The strike is loud when it hits and Emma releases a loud, elongated moan. 

But it’s not one of pain, this one is lower on the scale, deeper, throatier and Regina knows it, feels it in her belly. This is release and ease and surprised comfort. 

She watches eagerly as the stripe of flesh touched by the strap knits together, the red leeched out and the heated muscle cooled, leaving nothing but faded scars that could have been months if not years old. This is relief Regina knows well. She remembers the instant freedom from pain. 

“What?” The confusion makes Emma’s voice thick and unfocused. “What was that?”

“Magic has its uses beyond pure evil.” Regina answers simply. “And I am not known for breaking my toys so completely, so early on.”

The hand at Emma’s neck slides downwards, down over her sternum and lower, towards the manubrium between and under her breasts. The skin of her wrist brushes a nipple and Emma stifles another moan. 

“Now.” She reminds her. “Now is when you begin begging for more.”

“More.” A long, low whine. “Please, please more.”

And as the strap rears back and strikes slightly lower, covering a particularly nasty welt and drawing with it all the pain and agony, Regina closes her hand over Emma’s right breast, cupping it, taking her nipple between her fingers. It is peaked and hard and twists ever so gently. 

“Yes, god yes.” Emma’s back arches, stretching skin that is both healed and not, pushing her chest forward into Regina’s hand. “Anything, I’ll do anything.”

It’s addictive, Regina knows, and once started cannot be stopped, that craving for the instant relief. The majority of Emma’s back will still be on fire, excruciating to even think of moving, a deep throbbing pain that cannot be ignored. 

Two days, she could not have planned it better herself. In fact, Regina had thought Snow would have come a lot earlier, but it has worked well. Emma must have been in her own personal hell, no cessation from the pain for that long. 

And now, now Regina is taking it away. 

“Where?” She tempts. “Where do you want it, Emma? Where do you need it?”

Emma’s body sags, part defeat part acceptance. 

“Further down.” At Regina’s pause, her raised eyebrows, Emma continues. “Please, My Queen, please.”

And she does, sliding fingers down from her breast over her navel, pushing the nail of her middle finger into Emma’s belly button, otherwise splaying her hand flat over the woman’s abdomen and holding her body still as she rewards her with several smaller, sharper slaps over the softer skin of her lumbar spine. 

There are still patches of welts, areas that have escaped the strap, that cry out for finer aim, but Regina’s eyes are drawn even lower, to the two nastiest slashes left on Emma’s body, over her buttocks. 

Her mouth runs dry. 

“Please, please, please.” Emma continues to beg and Regina can barely hear it, cupping her hand down over the rise of Emma’s pubic bone and threading fingertips into the coarse hair there. “Yessss.”

A sibilant, needy, throaty hiss. 

Regina holds Emma still as she runs the strap over the broken areas of her upper back, until the whine becomes almost incoherent, a whimper of need. With an intake of breath, Regina lifts the strap high and brings it right down hard over the rounded cheeks of Emma’s ass. 

And her fingers slide right up inside, finding Emma wet and wanting.

It does not take long, with Regina pumping her fingers in and out, sliding the strap in widening circles over her back, bringing her mouth in close to blow cool air into her ear, to feel Emma come hard. 

Immediately Regina drops the strap on the floor with a quiet whoosh, coming to stand in front of Emma and continue pumping into her hard and fast, as she uses her free hand to grasp the back of Emma’s head, slide her fingers in her hair and pull hard, yanking her head back. 

“Again.” Regina orders, harsh and direct. “Come for me again.”

Emma cries out, voice broken, as her body stretches like a bow, arched, neck snapped back. Regina gives her no quarter as she closes her mouth over Emma’s neck, sucking deep and strong, almost tasting the blood cells that rush to the surface. 

She can feel Emma’s body, quivering and hot against her, breasts pushed up against her own. 

Regina feels Emma’s second orgasm building before the wave of the first one has left her and she quickens her movements, pushes harder, sucks deeper, yanks even tighter on her hair until Emma breaks. 

Sliding her fingers out, she lets Emma fall forward onto her as she reaches up to unclasp the shackles. Emma falls into her and then slides down onto the ground, her body bent as she sobs. She doesn’t react as Regina kneels down into a crouch next to her. 

“I’m going to make you another deal.”

The curve of Emma’s back hitches. 

“That was the last piece of magic I’ll use on you.” Regina lets that sink in for a second. “I still own you, make no mistake, but from now on anything I do to you will be nothing more than I could have done as Mayor back in Storybrooke.”

The crying slows and Emma looks up, eyes wide, confused and hopeful. 

“Really?”

Regina thinks, with the gleam that sparks in Emma’s eye, that she might actually understand what’s being offered, what’s at stake. 

“My word has been good so far.”

***

Emma’s brain shuts down as she turns, stretches her now healed body into a seated position, hands propping her up from behind. Her feet slide in under her body and she’s up before she even knows what she’s doing, rearing her shoulder backwards. 

Then Emma punches Regina hard in the mouth. 

Her brain understands Regina’s words, but her body cannot stop the anticipation of pain, the reflexive draw back as she waits to be strung up, lifted and caught, the white hot electricity entering her blood stream and frying her from the inside out, to be left writhing on the floor. To be grabbed from the side and dragged back down to the dungeons. 

When that doesn’t happen, she looks to see Regina sitting backwards, having fallen on her ass, her right hand gently probing at her split lip and the blood that leaks from it, strongly reminiscent of the night Graham died. She sees this, but it is the look in Regina’s eyes, smug satisfaction with a hint of excitement, that makes Emma snap. 

She roars as she propels herself forward again, landing another punch. 

It builds up in her, wave upon wave of the pain heaped on her in the last few weeks, the humiliation, the useless petty bickering, all those wasted lives, and Henry, poor Henry dead and now shattered, her own life hollow and broken for nothing. 

As they both stand, Emma can’t hold herself back and rushes forward, catching Regina in what she assumes would be a fairly good football tackle, shoulder slamming into the woman’s abdomen and smashing her backwards several steps with a loud _oomph_. 

“You bitch!” And she follows as Regina falls backwards on the bed holding herself up on her elbows, crawling up over her and pushing her down. “You absolute heartless, fucking bitch!”

She pulls her hand back to slap the woman, but Regina reaches up and catches her wrist, holds it tightly and almost cruelly. 

“I won’t use magic on you.” Regina promises. “But I can still heal myself pretty fast, so think carefully.”

Emma could spit. 

“Fuck you.” She hisses instead, struggling her wrist out of the woman’s grasp and announcing it again, clearer, in case the message was missed the first time. ”Fuck. You.” 

“Yes.” Regina agrees breathily with a glint in her eye. “Please.”

Emma looks down and she doesn’t see an Evil Queen, she sees Mayor Mills, dressed in a hideously obscene costume, black upon black everywhere she looks, plastered to her skin, her hair, even coating her nails. 

And she can’t stand it. 

“I hate you.” Another hiss as she hooks her fingers into the neckline of the Queen’s dress and yanks sharply, tearing it. “I hate you.”

The only words out of her mouth, but that’s not what she’s saying. 

_You might control me, but nobody owns me._

Her fingers scrabble at any material she can find, rending it, spreading it off pale skin, pulling and tearing. 

“I hate you.”

_You won’t break me. Others have tried and failed._

Until Regina is bared, a nymph of ivory skin in the midst of a spreading pool of blackness on the bed underneath her, like ink, a mixture of cloth and loosened hair. 

“I. Hate. You.”

_And you’re just like them, you have fancier tricks, but that’s all they are._

This isn’t about gentleness or pleasure or sex, this is about frustration and need and revenge and Emma is rough, rougher than she’s ever been as she leans down and bites, her teeth closing hard against a jugular vein, fingers of her right hand pinching tight and cruel against a nipple. She rides the jerks of Regina’s body underneath hers. 

Somewhere dark and distant, there’s a moan of approval, but Emma is past hearing or caring. 

“I can’t stand you.”

_When you get tired of me and throw me away, I will walk upright and not look back._

Her hands slide down between them, grab Regina’s thighs and jerk them apart and outwards, sideways, hard and sudden and almost too far, stretching them tight. Regina is as wet and embarrassingly ready as she imagines she was minutes before on the rack. 

Slamming in and out with loud, obnoxious sucking sounds, Emma grits her teeth. 

Regina pants hard, bringing her head up off the bed to look her in the eyes. 

“So, would you go, if you could?” Regina taunts. “Would you go home if I let you?”

“No.” Emma hisses with one last ragged slam, three fingers deep as she crosses them inside Regina, her other hand coming to tug and twist at her clit. “I’ve never had one.”

Regina’s back arches high off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream, and Emma feels her release flood thick and pearly over her hand, before she withdraws, Suddenly and instantly lacking in the energy and spite that coursed through her moments before.

“Yes.” Hums Regina, satisfied, as she comes back down to the mattress, body already mingling back into black. “Exactly that, yes.”

And Emma just rolls away, too hollow to even cry.

*** 

It comes over her in waves. 

Snow wakes up in Charming’s arms, surrounded, nestled into his embrace and it’s familiar, it’s like she never spent any time apart, because in Snow’s brain they haven’t. 

But in Mary Margaret’s memories, they were never together, not like this. 

They had a year in their marriage bed, always shadowed by the threat of the curse, but always happy and she had never felt as secure as she had wrapped in him. She turns to look at him now, runs her finger down the curve of his nose.

Slowly, he is beginning to lose the last vestiges of David Nolan. He is even beginning to smell like his old self, the chemical traces of aftershaves and soaps have long left his skin, returning to the scents of the earth, all forest and grass and sweat. 

There is a sound he makes in the back of his throat when he is training with the horses, using his voice like a crack of the whip, that is all him, that he never made back in Storybrooke, that curls around her chest and tugs whenever she hears it. 

And they have been training a lot lately. 

She lifts his arm from around her, kisses the tips of his fingers and then slides out from under him without thinking. The air is beginning to cool down outside the pelts and she shivers as she slips a robe around her nightgown. 

Her eyes struggle not to look into the corner of the room as she passes, but they fail and her heart stops, just like it does every time. A large draping cloth covers the mound, but it hides nothing. The first night they spent back here, Snow helped James dismantle the bassinette, unhook the glass unicorn mobile and gently lay it all aside. 

He had wanted to smash it apart and she could not bear to let it go. This was their compromise and it has healed no one. 

The castle is quieter this early in the morning, devoid of the growing hustle and bustle of a whole community under its walls as they camp in the main halls and the grounds, but it is never silent. There is usually someone awake, making some small noise, the clatter of the kitchens and animals being tended.

She passes all of them, feet easily picking their way as she climbs higher and higher, step over step to the top of the tallest tower. 

And she is not surprised to find him here. 

“Henry.” She wraps the robe around her more tightly. “Did you sleep okay?”

He doesn’t turn, all folded up inside a window enclave, looking out across the expanse of water that is surrounded by trees on all sides. 

“Yeah.” It’s a sigh. “I’m good.”

She does not entirely believe him, but she doesn’t question it either, and instead runs her brain through a myriad of inappropriate conversation choices. It hardly seems right to nag him about eating a proper breakfast, or keeping up with school work, or even making an effort to mix with the town children. 

He has always been different, always isolated and estranged. 

In Storybrooke, he was the only child who aged, who changed and grew and matured and he knew it by the time he was seven. Here, it is because he’s the only child who hasn’t matured twenty eight years beyond the age of his body. 

She settles down next to him instead, reaching over to pick up the leather bound volume in his hands. 

He gives it over easily. A diary that James had presented him with soon after his arrival. This new relationship between the two is both heart-warming and heartbreaking to watch. They are grandfather and grandson, but they are beginning to look and act more like father and son. 

James has been taking him outside the castle, into the woods, and she does not know what happens out there, but Henry returns with a happy expression, chattering in a way she’s never seen him do before. James takes him riding and though Henry is shy around the horses, he is beginning to relax. They laugh together and impart knowledge and, later in the evening when Henry falls asleep in the great hall listening to the din of everybody talking, James carries him to his bed. 

Snow flips through the pages and bites her lip. 

Out of all the children in her class, all the children she had taught year after year after year, it is Henry, the child she taught for less than a year, that she remembers the most. She knows what stories he tells in creative writing and she knows what pictures he draws, all castles and princesses and fairy tale creatures. 

But this, this is different, something she has never seen him draw before. This book is full of drawings that are crude but accurate representations of small houses, a clock tower, the Mayor’s house, and finally the bright curves of Emma’s yellow bug. 

The story that no one else will tell.

Another world he wants but cannot reach. 

***

There are spans of time when there is nothing for Emma to do but roam the castle. 

Mostly what she finds is locked doors, but there are a few rooms that open. She finds herself returning more and more to the kitchen. It is unlike everything she knows and it’s not like she was ever a master chef or anything, but she misses the small things. Like fridges and electricity and microwave popcorn. 

The Queen has guards and staff all over the castle and Emma is unsure if they have been given orders directly or that they look down on her with disdain, but none of them talk to her, they barely even look at her. Mostly, she knows them as figures that scurry out of a room when she enters. 

Occasionally the guards will come to lead her to the Queen when she is summonsed, or guide her away from somewhere she is not supposed to be, but it is more the shepherding of a pet than anything else. 

It threw her at first, but now she accepts it, strolling into the kitchen without bothering to note the cook that suddenly finds something else to do. She tears off a hunk of bread and begins to nibble as she comes to stand near the large fire lit oven, warming her back. A pot bubbles inside and she smells something thick and meaty. The urge to grab the large mixing spoon and stir is almost too strong to resist. Maybe take a small sample… 

“So.” Regina finds her, even here, and Emma closes her eyes. “This is where you hide yourself.”

“Just looking around.”

It’s said with a shrug, careless and casual, as if they were back at Granny’s diner discussing council business. When she raises her hand back to her mouth, unable to stop the constant grazing, she feels a hand hold hers still. She opens her eyes to see Regina standing closer than ever. 

“New rule.” Of course there is, she sighs. “If you refuse to eat your meals with me, you don’t eat at all. Is that clear?”

Emma lets go of the bread and Regina tosses it back to the bench. There is nothing left to do. The only surprising thing is that her absence in the hall has been noted at all. 

“I don’t know why you care as long I’m in your chamber come nightfall.”

There’s a flash in Regina’s eyes and for a second Emma thinks she will be slapped, but Regina covers quickly with a mean amusement. 

“Manners, Miss Swan. Was your broken childhood so bereft of simple etiquette that you don’t understand the importance of mealtimes?”

This time Emma thinks it will be her that slaps Regina, but she bites back the impulse quickly. It is not worth it, not now, not over something so minor. 

“As you wish, My Queen.”

She gives a little dip of her knees as she walks past, deciding to head back to the cavernous rooms of her own chamber and perhaps read yet another volume. At least this castle is well stocked with books. They’re not quite Stephen King or anything else she’s used to, but she’s comfortable in the knowledge that she’s never read them before. 

But Regina has other plans, catching the crook of her elbow and spinning her around. 

“Are you purposely trying to anger me?”

“No.” Emma sighs. “I’m purposely trying to avoid you.”

Regina steps forwards, once, twice, and Emma has no choice but to step back until she feels the counter at her back. Her hands come up behind to stabilise her movement and she feels somewhat dizzy, unstable, as Regina pushes right into her space. 

“Like it or not, Emma.” Regina reaches up and fingers the gold collar that sits low on Emma’s neck. “You made an agreement. You are mine, my toy, to use and abuse in each and every way I see fit.”

Two weeks under her control and already her body is conditioned to react to Regina’s presence, the sound of her voice. She cannot stop the tremors as she leans back, ever so slightly, trying to create some distance as her breath shallows.

“What more do you want?” It comes out hoarser than she’d planned it, deeper and throatier. “I’ve done everything you wanted. Everything.”

Regina’s hand leaves the collar, sliding up her throat to cup her chin and hold her still as she brings her face even closer. Emma can feel Regina’s breath over her face. 

“Except submit.”

This is a horrible limbo, one that Emma has gotten to know well, where everything can go pear shaped. In this moment, the expectation drips salty saliva down her teeth as she waits for Regina to decide if she’s going to go for pain or lust and there is nothing for Emma to do but take what comes. 

“The contract was for my obedience.” She points out. “Not my submission.”

“Quite right.” Briefly, for a fraction of a second, admiration sparkles in Regina’s eyes, but it quickly turns darker. “It seems I am always underestimating you, Miss Swan.”

Then the decision is made and Emma is bent back even further as Regina pushes forward, mouth claiming hers, hard and fast and demanding. There is nothing to do but bring her hands up, grabbing Regina’s waist and holding on as her chin is pushed up and away and Regina’s mouth begins devouring her neck. 

A tendril of smoke from the fire curls lazily in the air above her head twisting over itself and reaching for the high ceiling as Emma hears the sound of her own moaning. 

Lust it is. 

***

No one has ever accused her of having too much self-restraint. 

Regina knows this to be fact. She revels in it, taking everything she wants and denying herself nothing. Going to extremes is her calling card, indulgence and extravagance, There are no such words as ‘too far’ in her vocabulary. She drains things to their very marrow, taking as much as humanly possible and then some, leaving nothing but husks in her wake. 

Every. Single. Time. 

And she would be doing the same thing now, were it not for her plan. 

She would have Emma gasping out loud, writhing in pain, screaming… yes. Screaming, that is something she hasn’t done yet, not since the dungeons and the dungeons don’t count. Sobbing, whimpering, moaning and begging, yes, she’s done that. She’s had Emma pinned, stripped down, hung up, whipped and even had her on top. 

Were it up to Regina, she would have the stone come alive, grow hands that hold Emma up against the wall while she takes the last of her self-control. 

Maybe she can look into that later. 

For now, Regina sits once again in her chair at the dining table, her back straight and her wrists resting on the edge. She cuts her meat carefully, spearing a piece with her fork. Carefully, casually, she brings it down to her left side. 

With narrowed eyes, Emma obediently opens her mouth. 

“Good girl.”

She is kneeling on Regina’s left, her hands shackled behind her back, the perfect pet. The stretch of her shoulders backwards pushes her chest out further in front, giving Regina a perfect view of her rounded breasts out the top of her dress. 

Regina absently strokes the top of Emma’s head, like she would any well-trained animal, and continues eating her dinner. 

After the incident in the kitchen, Emma stubbornly took to skipping meals, all the easier to avoid Regina unless necessary. That will not do. And so now Regina has a small, decorative little leash attached to Emma’s gold collar. 

And Emma seethes, 

She considers digging the heel in a bit stronger, just a sentence to make it all the worse, telling Emma that she makes the same hurt, stubborn, betrayed puppy dog eyes Graham used to make when she did the same to him. 

The thought instantly sours her mood. Pictures in her brain seem brighter, harsher, like all the memories of Storybrooke, and she sees Emma in that damnable black tank top rearing back to hit her again, sees Graham choosing Emma over her. 

Slender, thin, the gold chain slinks around her wrist as she coils it again and again, shortening Emma’s leash until the woman is tethered to her, her neck bent back and eyes looking up. Confused, and for a brief second afraid, before Emma covers. 

“We’re done here.”

She stands and the movement causes Emma to stumble, struggling against the bonds that hold her, before she can catch herself. It’s an awkward shuffle, but Emma has found a way to move on her knees that almost keeps up with Regina. 

The mood changes the minute Regina slams the door to her bedchamber closed. 

Emma spins on her knees to face her, fire already growing to a steady anger, the humiliation of the day crystalizing into action. Regina watches curiously for a second as Emma picks one knee up and begins to stand. 

It seems in this room, at least, Emma feels secure and it is so strikingly and absurdly ironic that Regina feels the need to laugh. But she doesn’t, instead she pushes Emma’s shoulder down hard until the woman crumples back onto her knees. 

“Stay down.”

Whatever retort, whatever angry tirade Emma had been about to unleash disappears and is replaced by the steady, seething acceptance she is familiar with. 

“I want you gone before I wake up.” Regina doesn’t react to the surprise in Emma, the sudden uplift of her mood. “There will be a horse prepared and provisions packed. You will wear the riding clothes made for you. And you will be gone.”

She can see it in Emma, that confusion, the sudden urge to blurt out surprise at Regina actually letting her go, but Emma is smarter than that and bites it back. To date, Regina has not broken her word to Emma. She has given all that she has promised and she has not used magic on the woman since she healed her. 

Of course, Emma must surely realise that what is given can just as easily be taken back, that Regina can and eventually will change her mind when the time suits. Right now, of course, Regina is still bending Emma to her will. 

There will come a point when the change will lead to further acceptance and not a rebellion. 

“I…” Emma begins to censor herself, but when Regina gestures for her to continue, she does. “I don’t know how to ride a horse. And I don’t know the way.”

“You’ve been there once.” Regina rolls her eyes. “It’s nobody’s fault but your own if you weren’t paying attention.”

Of course, Regina is not worried in the slightest. Emma is the child of Snow White and Prince Charming. If she steps one foot off the beaten path, she is sure to be led swiftly by a dozen or so woodland creatures and small birds. 

It is remarkable how little Emma knows of herself. 

She will have Kegan saddled for the ride. He’s an old horse, past the point of rebellion, and he has made the journey between the castles countless times. All Emma has to do is not fall off and she’ll be fine. 

Not that she needs to tell Emma this. 

“And you… you trust me to come back?”

“Emma, Emma, Emma.” Regina traces her finger along the fine lines of the golden band, three woven threads together, around Emma’s neck. “Trust has nothing to do with it. The contract makes it so.”

She gestures to the room around her, to the little answering golden cradle to Emma’s collar. 

“Besides, I highly doubt it will take a week. I fully expect you back here by nightfall.”

Determination bleeds into Emma’s eyes, a challenge accepted, and Regina smiles. 

She will win either way. Either Emma will obey all her orders and dutifully ride back within a week, or she will do something to break the contract and be transported directly to Regina’s chambers. Such a simple and yet effective spell. 

Regina can read it in Emma’s eyes, _I won’t give you that satisfaction_ , but she knows exactly how determined Snow can be, more so than Emma ever saw Mary Margaret. She doubts Emma is prepared for the fight ahead. 

Hooking her fingers into the collar, she pulls Emma forward suddenly, so that the woman stumbles again, loses her balance with her wrists chained behind her back. She feels Emma’s face collide with her legs and smiles. 

“It all comes down to how well you’ve learned your lessons, Emma.” Regina steps backwards, bringing Emma with her, until she feels a chair at the back of her knees. “So the question is, do you think you’ll pass?”

Emma sets her jaw. 

“You’re. Not. Going. To. Beat. Me.”

It’s all Regina can do not to burst out laughing as she sits down, bending forward to reach around Emma and unlock the manacles at the woman’s wrists, bringing her mouth in close to her ear with a whisper. 

“Oh, Emma, I already have.” 

And Regina leans back, spreading her knees enough that she is able to pull Emma forward, force her chin onto the edge of the chair between them, and stroke the side of her passionately insubordinate face. 

“Now, show me what you’ve learned.”

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not the savior, you're the sacrificial lamb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.   
> **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** She is the embodiment of all that they have lost and continue to lose.

***

Snow looks up into the sun and decides it must be at least an hour until midday. She slows Matilde’s gallop down to a more manageable canter and begins the lookout. 

The bluebird had woken her not long after daybreak to give her the news that Emma had left Regina’s castle. It had not taken her long to saddle her horse and leave to meet her daughter midway. She has been riding now for approximately four hours and doesn’t stop to question why she felt the need to leave as quickly as possible, getting away before a greeting party could be formed, before anyone else joined for the ride. 

She is greedy in her need. Once they return to the castle there is only five real days before they must return Emma to Regina, days in which Emma will be bombarded with Henry and James and the rest of the realm. People who have a rightful claim on her time. People not Snow. For now, though, she can have this. 

Emma should come into view any moment. 

Matilde snorts, a shuffling bubbling breathy sound as her muscles tremble. Snow leans down and caresses her neck, the warm body soothing under her touch, the silent promise that they will stop and rest as soon as they can. 

Her horse has, as always, gone far beyond the call of duty, pressing forward at a great speed in the rush to meet Emma. 

Snow is grateful to have found Matilde in the stables. She tries not to think too carefully on the details of the curse, because that way only lies madness. They woke up in the same places they had been when the curse struck, with only moments having seemingly passed in their world. They are the same age as before and, yet, their bodies are different. 

She had woken with Mary Margaret’s hair and Charming had woken with David’s recovery. 

The castle they’d woken to showed obvious signs of abandonment and disrepair, the dust and cobwebs the least of their worries as they had spent days felling back the overgrown plants and vines, discarding and replacing the rotted straw beds and decimated food stocks.

Yet all their animals and livestock had reappeared as if waiting for them. 

It makes no sense. And nobody can explain it, no matter how they try. The people of the town are reluctant to spread out and reclaim the woods as they had once done, they congregate inside the castle keep instead. Each of them a mix of their true and Storybrooke selves. 

People accepted who they had been and what they had done in those twenty eight years; there was very little reproach for something none of them had been able to control. Snow smiles, somewhat bitterly, as she considers that everyone is acting as if it were a town-wide drunken one night stand. 

Princess Abigail sends her silent apologies with her eyes, but Charming has avoided talking to his erstwhile faux wife since they arrived back here. 

She is lost in her thoughts, but she does not miss the warning screech of her bluebirds and her eyes rise to see a figure far ahead, approaching on a horse of her own. 

Emma. 

It’s an easy trot and the woman is surprised, but definitely pleased, to see a familiar face. 

“Thank god.” Emma gushes as their horses slow to a trot, Kegan taking his cues from Snow and Matilde more so than any strong guidance on Emma’s part. “I am so incredibly lost. And I have the strangest feeling I only got this far because of birds. Actual bluebirds.”

Snow laughs, unable to keep it in, relief and joy and misplaced energy, just the sight of Emma riding strong and upright and no longer fettered by pain. 

“Disney did get a few things right.” At Emma’s raised eyebrows, she leans forward to confide. “But I’ve never actually _sung_ to them.”

Then Emma laughs as well and the sound is beautiful. 

“Okay.” Because she can’t help herself. “Maybe I’ve hummed…”

And the laughter grows, the two of them sitting atop horses in the middle of the path, a young mother and her grown daughter, releasing the things they cannot say until it runs its course and then dies out. 

With a quick squeeze of her knees, she guides Matilde towards the trees, confident in the knowledge that Kegan will trail not too far behind. Her father’s old horse, he used to be tricky to handle, but he follows when he is confident in the guide. 

“We should take a break.” Quick, efficient words. “I know a particularly good spot to rest and tend the horses. I have lunch packed and, if they’re still there, I know where to find some really great berries.”

“Oh.” Is Emma’s succinct reply. “Ok.”

There’s surprise and bewilderment in Emma’s voice and Snow understands. She cannot particularly imagine Mary Margaret taking control and foraging through the forest either. 

They wind their way deeper into the trees and Emma glances backwards once or twice, but doesn’t say anything, until they reach a small creek bubbling merrily. Snow can smell the greenness of it, the wet earth and fallen leaves slowly decomposing, the animals that live nearby. There was nothing like this in Storybrooke. 

Her brain stutters for a moment and she blinks it away, trying to clear her head. In one memory, she has never left this place, the entire thing took less than a blink of the eye. And yet, in the next memory, she has been gone for a lifetime. 

She dismounts easily and helps Emma do the same, not so easily, before taking the opportunity to teach her daughter something, anything, with a lesson on tending horses. They take their time watering the horses, feeding them and brushing their coats. 

Emma is a quick learner and Snow watches her daughter’s hand slide down Kegan’s flanks with satisfaction. There is so much to tell about a person by how they treat their animals. 

“Now us.”

And she delights in showing Emma the feast that can be made out of forest plants, adding to the small provisions of bread and salted meats in her pack, how to make reliable drinking vessels out of folded and woven leaves. 

The majority of her life has been pampered, a princess waited on hand and foot until her father’s death and a princess after Charming woke her with a kiss, but there is a span of a few years where she lived here, worked for her food and her survival. And it is something she never wants to forget, a large part of herself she can never let go. 

“Here.” She says, after they’ve eaten their fill and stretched their legs. “Follow me, I want to show you something.”

It’s at least a twenty minute walk and they leave the horses to recover as they make their way. With each passing minute, Emma grows more agitated. 

“Shouldn’t we…? You know, get started again?”

Emma’s eager to be back at the castle, to see Henry mostly, and Snow understands this, she does, she’s just not in any hurry to give up Emma yet. There is plenty of time, she tells herself, to pace this out and save it all for a later date, but she cannot stop herself. There’s a desperate burning need in her to do it all now, say everything, have it all immediately. 

“It’s at least another four hour ride and you’re not used to riding. Trust me, you’ll be grateful for the break.” She climbs her way up a stone enclave, looking back to check that Emma is coping. “You’re exhausted now, but it’s nothing compared to what will happen when we finally stop. You won’t get anything done tonight. Most likely you’ll collapse in a big pile of hurt.”

She’s struggling slightly, but Emma is managing to hold her own. 

“Wow.” Comes the familiar sarcasm. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

What Snow doesn’t say is that it’s not just the days’ ride that will wipe her out, it will be the emotional release that does Emma in, the breaking of that constant hyper tension that carries the woman in every second Snow has seen her since their return. Finally free, if only temporarily, from her captor. 

Dried leaves crunch under her boots as she approaches the mouth of the cave, pulling back the curtain of vine leaves. Her eyes devour Emma’s reaction as the woman takes in the scenery. 

“What is this?” But it’s an empty question as Emma eyes the forgotten pelts in the corner with admiration. “You lived here?”

The place has obviously been pillaged of anything of value Snow may have left behind, but she cannot say if it was done before the curse was enacted or after. There has been no definitive sign of any life in their absence, but she is not taking anything at face value. 

Despite this fact, it is clear that this cave was a hideout, a place for someone to lay low. 

“For a little bit. I moved around a lot.”

Emma nods.

“It’s bigger than my bug.” Then shrugs, but the bravado fools neither of them, Snow can feel the approval and awe radiate from her. “I’ve slept in worse.”

A shadow passes over Snow. As Mary Margaret, she hated hearing those little glimpses of Emma’s past before, the hints of how bad it was. But now it is almost unbearable. 

“You were loved, Emma.”

“Yeah.” And Emma fidgets, picking up a crude wooden bowl to hide the shaking of her hands, turning it end over end in the pretence of examining it. “Whatever.”

She cannot stop the step forward, the urge in her to grab Emma and hold on tight too strong to push back. But her intention is obvious and Emma drops the bowl, wiping her hands nervously on her riding breeches before backing away. 

“Time to go, then?”

And Snow sighs. 

“Yes. Of course.”

***

This castle is different to Regina’s. 

The stone of the floors and steps is warmer, more welcoming, the plants greener and more alive, the animals happier and more vibrant. Even if she didn’t know already, she would recognize on sight that it belonged to Snow White and Prince Charming, to the people of some fairy tale enchanted forest. 

Happy people.

The tallest tower, Snow had told her, and so she climbs the steps, the countless steps, and tries to bite down on the nervousness she feels. Everyone that sees her is strangely, reservedly happy. They call her Princess in whispered, reverent voices, and they want to adore her as such. It feels weird, awkward, and not just because Emma has never felt adored by anyone before, let alone a land full of people, but because they all know. 

They all hang back, their joy muted because of the sacrifice she has given for them. 

She is the embodiment of all that they have lost and continue to lose. 

And she sees him now, the only one that truly matters, folded into a stone enclave, a window seat, facing the world outside. His hand hangs limply at his side and she sees his eyes closed. For a second her heart seizes and she’s taken straight back to the hospital room, but then she sees his chest rise and fall. It’s strange, how different he looks, how she has never seen him asleep before. 

She cannot help but touch his face, the side of his forehead as she tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear. Now, in more ways than ever before, he is hers and he is still so far away. 

“Henry.” She shouldn’t wake him, she shouldn’t, Snow told her how little sleep he has been getting. “Henry, I’m back.”

But she only has seven days and she’s not going to waste them. 

“N’m’nnn… I’m okay.” He blinks, slurring his words before he’s even fully awake and then a split second later she is bowled backwards with an armful of boy. “Emma!”

In several different ways, her breath leaves her and she’s winded as they both stumble backwards until she hits the far wall, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist and the side of his face buried under her ribs. 

“You came back!” He gasps against her. “I knew you would!”

Tentatively, unsure now that he’s awake, her hand comes down to rest on the top of his head, brushing at his hair. 

“Of course, I did.”

Eventually she has to sit and they slide down the wall until they sit with their backs pressed up against it, side by side. His knees are ridiculously small compared to hers. Sunlight filters in through the window across from them and plays patterns over their faces. 

He has filled out with exercise and sunshine, the sort he never had before, and she is struck that he is not long for boyhood. 

“Emma?” He says when the quiet threatens to break them both. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” It makes her head spin, the sudden decline in his voice. “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t meet her eyes. 

“The curse.” He almost spits the words, so much anger and regret in him that had never been there before. “I should never have found you. I should have left you in Boston.”

Her heart skips a beat and for a second she is unable to argue with him. 

Just a second. 

“You don’t mean that.”

He spins against her, pushes away, and she watches him put distance between them. 

“Of course I mean it, Emma! There’s something wrong here. This world isn’t right. You can feel it, can’t you?”

Of course she can feel it, she lives it. 

She looks at him across from her, rounded up on his haunches, suddenly looking both older and younger than his near eleven years. Resentment is growing in him, wide and empty, and yet there is a desperate need to be comforted. 

“But it’s the real one, Henry.” He won’t be won over by grand declarations. “It’s their world. The one we fought for and gave back to them. Would you take it back from them, if you could?”

He doesn’t wait, not even to take a breath. 

“Yes.”

Something cracks in her. 

“No you wouldn’t. They’re getting their Happy Ever Afters, even you will eventually be happier here than anywhere, it’s what they deserve.”

But he won’t be consoled, not so easily. 

“But what about you, Emma? Where is your Happy Ever After?”

She doesn’t know what to tell him, this boy who is supposed to be made of optimism and hope, who fought for the world of others so strongly that everyone around him condemned him as mad, who saw the good in everyone, who sees the world in definite shades of black and white. 

She can’t be the one to tell him that there are good people that don’t get happy lives no matter how hard they work for it and she is one of them. Some people are destined to be used and trod on and discarded.

And this is something that has been drilled into her before she could even walk. 

“What about what you want, Emma?” He continues, the words falling free now that he can say them, now that he doesn’t have to temper them for the sake of others. “Don’t you count?”

Apparently not, the bitter words swim around her brain. 

“I’ve never had what I wanted.” She says it quietly, softly, truly. “Until you found me.”

The fight goes out of Henry and he sinks back down to the floor. 

“Storybrooke. You were happy there.” There was nothing left for Emma to do but nod. “And I made you destroy it.”

Before she can think to temper it, to quantify exactly what she means, hope springs up in his face, eyes lighting up with an idea and she knows what it will be before he speaks it. Hates herself for the very fact she will have to kill it immediately. 

“Then that’s it!” He doesn’t disappoint, a smile growing on his face. “My mom can cast the curse again! She’s already done it once, she can do it again.”

Emma draws her knees up to her chest and hugs them close to her body. The tower is high in the air and it’s beginning to cool down already. 

“She won’t do it, Henry, and I would try my hardest to stop her if I thought she would.”

The fall of his face is fast and vicious. 

“Would you really do that?” She asks him again. “Would you really take the happiness away from everyone here and keep them as unknowing puppets in your theatre? Making them dance for you? Trapped? Unhappy?”

What Emma doesn’t tell him are the words Rumplestiltskin had whispered to her, breath hot and fetid as he’d climbed the bars of his cage, unable to hide his giddy glee at her appearance. The cost of the curse, the price Regina had had to pay. 

The heart of the thing she loved the most. 

It would be Henry Mills that paid the price again. 

And Emma herself will die before she lets that happen. 

“And what? It’s not Storybrooke that made me happy, it was you, Henry.” She flings at him instead, desperate herself now. “So, you’d do it all for a place where I can only see you ten minutes a day? If we can sneak it in? Where a good day is when your mother lets me buy you an icecream for thirty minutes? That’s not happiness, either.”

He’s shaking his head, eyes wide, and she knows this is the answer. 

“I can see you here.” Softer now, this is what he has to hear, what she has to make him see. “We can spend days together, you and I, whole days.”

“A week.” Is his whisper and she knows what he’s trying to say, that a week isn’t long enough, that it will never be long enough. It’s just long enough to be cruel. “Only a week.”

“Yeah, well.” She’s bone tired now, feels it in the sag of her body, her shoulders that won’t stay up. “It’s one week a month more happiness than I ever got before.”

Her head falls to her knees.

“Emma. I’m sorry.” His voice is still soft, a whisper, but it’s less argumentative now, more like it should be and she feels his small hand slip into hers. “Snow said I shouldn’t be angry in front of you. Or it will make you feel worse.”

Her shoulders hiccup once. Of course, it sounds exactly like something Mary Margaret would say, the perfect thing to say to a grandkid about their mother. 

“It’s okay, kid.” He’s sitting back next to her again, a warm body sliding against hers. “You have to be honest with someone, I’m glad it’s me.”

It’s true, because she knows the feeling. He won’t tell anyone else what he’s thinking, won’t burden them with it. This is something they share, trapped in a world where nothing makes sense, nothing is familiar. 

Snow was right before, she realizes it now, her muscles begin to give way and her body sags. She is weighted to the floor and her eyes grow heavy. She doubts she could stand even if she wanted to. Maybe this is it, maybe this is where she finally gives up, settled next to her son on a cold stone floor high up in a castle tower, hiding from reality. 

Emma closes her eyes once as her fingers ripple over Henry’s, feels the warmth of his pulse in the webs of his fingers between hers. She smiles as she feels the corresponding squeeze. They’ll be alright, the two of them, no matter what happens. She will always have Henry and he is worth the fight.

The second time she closes her eyes, she forgets to open them, falling swiftly into a haze of sleep. She feels his fingers slip from hers from a distance, too far away to react, and hears the soft sound of his footsteps tripping away. 

The next thing she feels is two strong arms around her, under her knees and shoulders, lifting her up and she is helpless to do anything but let herself fold into a chest. It’s a strange, hauntingly familiar smell, one she could swear she has never encountered in her life, but that tugs at something deep, with the brief, ephemeral sounds of metal sliding against metal, sword against sword and the feeling of flying. 

“But we were gonna have a feast!”

Henry’s voice slides into her dreams. 

“Give her a few hours.” Comes the reply, deep and solid and not even remotely close to David Nolan. “She’ll be fine.”

***

Regina enters the west hall and should be more surprised at the fire that crackles in the fireplace, she really should, but she isn’t. Nor is she surprised at the figure that lounges casually in the ornate arm chair in front of it, warming herself. She’d gotten word days ago that the woman had materialized back into this realm. It was only a matter of time before she paid Regina a visit. 

And there she sits now, seemingly casual and yet anything but. 

“Maleficent. To what do I owe this…?” Regina let the word hang empty in the air, her voice polite and exceedingly honeyed. “… unexpected visit?”

The smile is all teeth, Maleficent’s lips stretching, and Regina bristles. 

“Just returning an object I came across in the woods, something you so carelessly lost, I assume. Otherwise, can’t I come to see an _old_ friend.” A spark glints in the woman’s eyes as her voice trips over the word. “I must commend you, dear; the years have treated you well. Exactly how old are you, now, anyway? Eighty? Ninety?”

Regina’s fingertips crackle, brimming with the urge to call forth a storm and give this woman everything she deserves. Instead, she shrugs it off and calls forth a tray with some wine and glasses. 

“Resorting to age quips _again_ , Maleficent, dear?” 

“Just trying to lighten the mood. Heaven knows it’s so gloomy here right now.”

Regina scowls down into her cup. This is nothing new, this conversation, they practically run on script they’ve been friends for so long. And yet, right now, it’s not enough. She feels the tedium of it drain her completely and she has no patience for this game. 

It’s not like it’s a secret as to why Maleficent is here. Payback for keeping her a dragon all those years and then sending the saviour to gut her with a sword. Regina had thought, though, the slaying would be permanent. 

Waiting until she is sure of her audience, Maleficent claps in long, slow movements, all for show. 

“I have to say, congratulations on enacting the curse.” Eyes sparkling, the woman rests the tips of her fingers on her chin. “I’m a bit disappointed that you went to all that trouble only to let the orphaned whelp of Snow White break it.”

Regina’s hackles rise, unable to help it. 

“All curses can be broken, dear. Even you know that.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Well.” A carefully constructed façade of indifference, Maleficent shakes off the discussion and then sweeps her arms out in a wide gesture. “So, where is she? Word is you acquired yourself a new… plaything.”

It does not escape Regina’s notice that the sweep of Maleficent’s arms encompass the floor and lower areas, the space Emma occupied only twenty four hours previous, leashed and shackled and shuffling. 

“She’s not here.”

Maleficent pouts, meeting and holding her eyes for a beat, before sighing. Discontent. 

“That’s a shame. She and I have a score to settle. I rather thought you’d like to share this one.”

Momentarily, Regina considers throwing the woman across the room, up the nearest staircase and out of a tower. At the very least her body would make it through the first door before she’d have the ability to retaliate. 

She does not respond, but Maleficent’s eyes widen anyway. A dark amusement curls the edges of her lips. 

“Well, that’s new. This puppy must have teeth.” She wraps her fingers around her new sceptre, one by one, as if imagining it is Regina’s throat. “And here I remember someone telling me that love was weakness, even for our pets.”

Regina huffs, a breath of air exhaled in annoyance. 

“Firstly, if I remember correctly, Maleficent, you have a tendency to break my things.”

The woman shrugs dismissively. 

“The boy was weak. But we both know girls can take a bit of extra play, don’t we?”

“Secondly.” Regina continues, as if she hasn’t been interrupted. “This isn’t for pleasure. She’s instrumental to my plan to torture Snow White. Once that has been accomplished, and if she’s still of any use after that, you are quite welcome to her.”

After several seconds of silence, Maleficent laughs at her, deep and throaty and dangerous. 

“Such the Miller’s granddaughter, Regina, your promises are always so carefully worded. But I will hold you to that.”

With a dramatic sweeping gesture, Maleficent disappears in a swirl of smoke. 

***

Old habits die hard, she thinks, even if they’re fake. 

The tray she carries has slabs of thick cut bread toasted in the oven fire, oozing with the cheese that has melted over the top, the bread a crusty, golden brown. The mugs are filled with a thick, honey mead. It’s not quite grilled cheese and a hot chocolate with whipped cream cinnamon, but it’s the closest she can do. 

And when Red gets a smile from Emma in return, she knows it’s worth it. 

They’re all sitting on a blanket spread out in the sun, Emma and Ella and Red, with baby Alexandra cooing as she lies on a corner of the blanket, chewing on a wooden rattle and Granny sitting in a small chair. Across the courtyard, horses whinny and men shout orders and little Henry tries his hardest to stay upright in the saddle while carrying a wooden practice sword. 

Red smiles as she thinks about the hesitation when they’d sat down, that silent little question they’d all shared, wondering whether they should _fight_ the menfolk for equality and the chance to train for battle. It had been brief and, really, only Emma seemed to struggle with the decision for long. 

They’re all quite happy to lounge in the sun and if Red pulls up her skirts high enough to get an even tan, nobody is saying anything about that, either. Pity about the cloak. 

“Diapers.” Ella sighs, wistfully, as Alexandra begins to whimper and fuss. “I miss diapers.”

A low hum of agreement rumbles across the blanket as hands reach in for food. 

“Twizzlers.” Red adds to the accompanying nods. “At least they were red.”

“Electric ovens.” 

Granny huffs as she twists her right arm under her sleeve and they all give a soft murmur of agreement. Red frowns as she remembers the angry red scald of the burn on the older woman’s skin. The baby’s cries get more insistent and Ella jostles her on her shoulder. 

“Cell phones.” Emma says amid bites of cheese toast. “And then I could get everything else delivered.”

That would be the winner, Red, thinks, if Snow didn’t choose that moment to walk by, bending down without pausing to take Alexandra out of her mother’s arms. 

“Indoor plumbing.” Snow adds with confidence. “No question.”

They all groan, Ella with a nod of agreement, Emma as she rolls onto her back and Red as she lets her head fall backwards with a little growl. 

“That’s cheating.” Granny says over the rim of her glasses. “Everybody wants _that_.”

For her part, Snow grins, happily defying the rules of the game as she bounces on her toes. Her hand cradles little Alexandra’s head to her shoulder as she bends her chin down and coos. Immediately the baby begins to soothe, quieting to a soft whimper. 

It’s so soft, Red is sure she’s the only one that picks it up, that tiny gasp of breath and the quickening of a heartbeat to her left. As everyone else looks up with smiles on their faces, Red turns to see Emma ducking her head away. Very quick, but not quick enough and Red sees the look of hunger there. 

“Cosmopolitans” She says brightly. “After a hard day’s work.”

The group finds their groove again and the heartbeats all even out. Red tries to block them out most of the time, but the tensions in the air cannot be overlooked right now. 

“Caffiene.” Emma drawls, the word dragging out in a gravel. “Strong, hot, black coffee.”

“Conditioner.” Twirling her hair around her finger in mock disappointment, Ella sighs. “Chemical hair treatments.”

They all nod. 

The sun beats down on them, not quite hot enough to burn, the chill in the air reminding them of the upcoming winter. This is probably one of the last few days to spend outside, the nights and mornings are already too cold and it won’t be long before the entire day follows. 

Red squints her eyes as she looks up into the bright haze of the sun. 

It’s brighter here than it was back in Storybrooke, as if the air itself is clearer and the oxygen fresher. Her life in the diner seems almost like a hazy dream, one that she can’t quite let go, and at the oddest moments of the day she will remember things. The taste of hot fries, the feel of her car’s engine revving underneath her, high heels and short shorts. 

If she were still Ruby, the cloak would be cloying and unbearable and she thinks she understands Ruby’s need to wear as little as possible, but she is not really that person. And Red… Red wears the cloak. 

She has had plenty of time to come to terms with the wolf and what the wolf has done, she can control it and use it to her advantage. She will never forget Peter and she won’t let his death be in vain. 

“Reality TV.”

A few sounds of disagreement bring her back into focus. 

“TV in general.” Granny corrects her with a wink. “And R rated movies.”

“Granny!” Snow admonishes her amid the laughter, but there’s also a glint in her eyes and indulgence on her face. “Keep it clean.”

“Leg waxes.” 

Emma’s suggestion has them all nodding again and Red can’t help herself. 

“Full Brazilian waxes.”

Laughter bursts out of their throats and Ella swats at her with the light pink blanket. She catches the tail of it and gives Ella the tip of her tongue poking out of her teeth as a response. But not a one of them disagrees with her. 

Still swaying on her feet, hands cradling Alexandra like the precious thing she is, Snow sighs. 

“Poor Bashful.”

The laughter erupts even louder. Storybrooke’s resident beautician and waxer has not looked Red in the eyes since their return. 

“Ugh.” Ella leans back on her hands, stretching her legs out and wiggling her toes. “Why did we have to come back just before winter? That’s not fair.”

Red gives an apologetic grimace, all smiles, to the standing woman. 

“No offence, honey, but… ugh, snow. I am not looking forward to it.”

“None taken.” Snow smiles down to the bundle in her arms, resting her lips on the baby’s head, not quite a kiss. “Summers here are gorgeous, though Emma, wait and see.”

And Emma scoffs. 

“Yeah, right, like My Queen will let me out in the sun.”

It does not take lycanthropic senses, Red thinks, to hear the collective gasps and intakes of breath, to see the stunned expression on everyone’s faces. Snow looks gutted, as if someone sucker punched her in the stomach and stole her breath. 

Emma scrambles, desperately trying to recover, but the damage is done. 

“Uh.. Regina.” It comes out weak and embarrassed. “I meant… Regina.”

And just like that all their carefully crafted denial, the delicate structure of peace that they’ve been playing with shatters. They’ve had days of acting careful, tip toeing around the subject, where every word is scrutinized. But out here, lazing in the last vestiges of sun, comfortable and easy as they laugh, Emma has forgotten to look for landmines. 

It’s a slap in the face again, another reminder, Emma is just a visitor here, on loan from a prison that no one wants to know the details of. 

“Sorry.” Emma seems to deflate in front of them, shrinking back into the blanket spread out underneath them. Making herself smaller. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

If Emma were canine, Red thinks, this is where her ears would flatten against her head and her tail wrap tightly underneath her. Protective. An abused animal shielding itself. 

“No.” Snow insists as she leans down to deposit Alexandra back in her mother’s arms. “It’s fine. Nothing… You did nothing.”

“Not a thing.” Granny insists. “Don’t worry yourself about it.”

“I really have to go…” Waving an arm behind her, a vague gesture across the courtyard to the training horsemen, Snow turns. “… fight something.”

And even though she steps quickly, Red can hear Snow’s pulse slow down. It’s how she boils, Red knows from experience, slowly and calmly and evenly. This is a precursor to serious action. She has no idea what Snow is planning, but it will probably happen soon. 

And Red is sure that there will be something. 

“Snow.” Ella wraps one hand around her daughter and pushes herself up with the other, grabbing baby blankets and rattles on the way. “Wait…”

One small conversation with their eyes later and Granny nods to Red, gathering her skirts and standing up. 

“I better go check on the kitchens. Damn fools will burn the boiling water if I let them.”

Just the two of them left, Emma lifts her head off the blanket and then drops it. The back of her skull thumps dully. 

“Stupid.” And again, another thump. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Red waits, watching as Emma lets her head fall for the last time, settling down into a flat despondence, looking up at the sky. 

“I hate it.” Emma finally says. “I just can’t stand it, Ruby… Red! Fuck! Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Emma.” 

Truly, Ruby was not a bad person to be, and out of everything that has happened, this is the last thing that anyone should be getting upset about. It wasn’t easy, but she knows that there were quite a few people who had it worse in Storybrooke, for whom life was a daily punishment. 

But Emma cannot see this yet, everything is still too big and too raw. 

“Don’t worry about it.” The woman echoes, voice rising with sarcasm to a point that makes the skin behind Red’s ears twitch. “I’m not supposed to worry about anything, am I?”

With this, Emma rolls, shifts her body until she’s lying on her belly facing Red. 

“Everything here is different. And everyone knows the rules, everyone has a reference they can turn to, but I... I just... I don’t know what to do here and nobody will tell me. How will I learn if no one will tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

Emma’s heartbeat is a _whoosh_ , loud and forceful and passionate, raging just as hard on the inside as she is on the outside. And Red looks at her, really looks at her, this woman whose shell is so thick and ingrained it hasn’t cracked yet, who so desperately wants answers. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” Because she can see that Emma doesn’t, not really. “Nothing you do can be wrong. I think you could walk around shoving poison ivy in people’s faces and poking them in the eye and they would still insist you’re in the right.”

Everyone knows the basics of Emma’s history, it had been printed in glaring black and white across the daily newspaper in sordid and trashy headlines. A life lived in foster care, shuffled from one family to the next, a youth full of trouble and jail time for an unspecified crime. It’s not too hard to fill in the blanks. 

“They all owe you and they know it.” 

Red is a solitary creature. At first by design, Granny keeping her isolated on purpose, and then by choice as she’d kept herself from anyone, with only Snow coming every month to see her. She is unused to being in such close proximity with this many people for this amount of time. 

Her knowledge of what to say and how to make people feel better is extremely limited. 

What she wants to do is tell Emma to just let loose, have fun with the freedom of no limits in a realm willing to bow to her every request, to forget whilst she can, live a little in the week she is here. She wants to have the carelessness of Ruby, the irreverence, wants to pour wine after wine into Emma’s cup until the woman becomes the Emma of old, of Storybrooke. 

But it is too soon, too much all at once, and this is not the answer Emma is looking for.

“I don’t want that.” Emma insists. “I don’t want their… gratitude.”

And what she means, Red thinks, is that she doesn’t want their adoration, cannot handle it. 

“I want things to be normal.” It’s quiet, but definite, Emma’s need. “I want everyone to just act like they did before, when I was nothing but the Sheriff. People had no problem letting me know what they thought, then. Especially when they thought I was wrong.”

Red quirks her head. 

“You feel more comfortable with people telling you off than with them adoring you?”

 _Yes_ , beats Emma’s heart, a resounding and frantic yes, even as Emma shakes her head. 

“I am nobody’s saviour.”

“No.” Red agrees. “You’re the sacrificial lamb.”

Something flickers behind Emma’s eyes, hurt and fear and gratitude all at once. And this is what Emma wants, not the silent agreement to never mention it, not the bowing gratitude of the people, the small gifts left in her honour, this wide berth of space that separates her from everyone else, unable to be breached. 

She wants acknowledgement, someone else to look at her and say _this sucks_. 

“But there has to be more.”

“There is no more.” It’s a harsh reality, but she cedes, because Emma blinks and is waiting for her to continue and she wants words, words that Red doesn’t even know she has. “Everything is different here. Magic exists, things are taken to their extremes, nothing is what it seems and so what people say is taken seriously. A person’s word is their law.”

The grass rustles under the blanket as Emma shifts, curls her body up underneath her to sit up next to Red. There’s a chill beginning to set in the air, though it’s only early afternoon. Red looks over to the practice battle and sees Snow wield a sword. She feels a stab of sympathy for the dummy target. 

“That you are the price Regina demands is not questioned, it’s not negotiable. That she could kill us all is clear in everyone’s minds, the fact that she has already killed is fresh in their heads There were only two choices, to accept or to fight. It was your choice and everyone accepts it. People cry and rally and argue, but ultimately this is the cost and there’s nothing they can do.”

“Maybe it would be easier if I didn’t come back.” Emma thinks out loud. “If I just stayed there all the time.”

Red lets this hang in the air, doesn’t respond, because she knows Emma doesn’t mean it, doesn’t really want it, in fact wants the opposite so desperately it would hurt to say out loud. 

“Things will calm down.” She promises instead. “Give it some time, everyone’s trying to adjust same as you, people will learn to live their lives again. They’ll cook and they’ll grow herbs and cut down trees and go hunting and birth babies and get married and die and life will go on.”

On top of the blanket, Emma’s hand scrunches into a fist, the tendons stretching against her skin in stripes, her knuckles bleaching white with pressure. 

“Without me.”

Red covers Emma’s hand. 

“Waiting for you.”

***

The very Earth down here is darker, smelling of wet decomposition. 

Emma hesitates and Snow lends a hand, lightly, to the small of her back. It’s a supportive gesture, tentative, and could be shrugged off easily if she chose to do so. But it further cements the feeling in her stomach that Snow and James on either side of her are more like sentries than companions. 

She doesn’t want to be here, but they haven’t given her much choice. As much as they stand together, Emma knows that Snow is behind this visit more so than Charming, spurred forth by the slip in the courtyard yesterday. 

_We don’t want you to agree to anything._ They’d pleaded with her. _Just listen to the options. That’s not against the rules._

The skin on her arms shrinks against the damp coolness as her eyes seek out the shape of the wooden bars up ahead. Flames from their torches dance in the periphery of her vision and she holds her breath. 

She has only been here once before and that memory is not one she’s grateful to have forced down her throat. 

Only days out of the dungeons, body still weak with the memory of agony and starvation, Regina had dragged her here to ensure that no one could make a deal with Rumplestiltskin to get Emma out of the contract.

Her body had baulked, afraid all at once that Regina had lied and she was being taken back down to the dungeons to be tortured forever, Emma had fought. But Regina had kept a tight hand on her, forcing her forward. 

The sight of him, a misshapen, discoloured creature climbing the bars as he roared, demanding Regina tell him about someone named Belle, before he’d seen her. Then he’d done a fairly disturbing Hannibal Lecter impression, hissing her name like it delighted his taste buds, in a way that had scared her. Scared her beyond the sight of Regina in all her black gothic regalia. 

It was nearly impossible to match him to the mild mannered, if manipulative shop owner back in Storybrooke. 

He had wanted her close to the bars, wanted to touch her and she knew that if Regina had not been there keeping a hand on her new purchase all the time, somehow he would have made it happen. Emma felt it, deep down, that she would have done what he’d asked. 

It frightened and intrigued her and she did not like it then and does not like it now. 

“Emma!” Delighted, from nothing to full force he throws himself against the bars. “You came back to see me, I knew you would.”

She is grateful now that her parents are here with her, two solid bodies to offer their support, because his voice scatters her resolve. Another hand lends itself to the one on the small of her back, helping to hold her upright. 

“Rumplestiltskin.” James intones, deadly serious. “We came for information.”

His resultant glare is large and luminescent. 

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. _Charming._ ” Complete with a finger waggle, he finishes his admonishment by opening his mouth and licking his top teeth. “I want to speak to Em-ma.”

One gnarled hand pokes between the bars and reaches out, long fingers uncurling and re-curling in an invitation that is clearly not a question. 

“Come here, sweet thing.” His face presses between the bars, as if by mere force alone he could push himself through. “I will only speak with you. I have your answers if you have mine.”

She should be scared, she _is_ scared, but as unlikely as it seems, it is Regina that is keeping Emma grounded. Regina’s voice explaining that Emma is under her protection now and nobody, not even the devil behind bars can touch her. 

Even as she takes a step forward, Snow’s hand grabs the crook of her elbow. 

“Emma, no!”

Rumplestiltskin bounces on his toes and gives a lilting chuckle. 

“Like mother like daughter! Isn’t that precious? ”

She’s pulled back as Snow steps forward, effectively thrown behind her for protection. The situation is laughable, because Emma knows she is the last one in the room that needs shielding now. 

“Tell us what you know.” Snow demands. “How do we break this?”

Emma watches, fascinated, as her mother wields a sword, ten times more furious than Mary Margaret ever was. Snow barely even blinks when Rumplestiltskin bangs his fists on the cage, giving a roar of rage. 

“I’m done telling you anything!” His hands wrap around the bars as the rest of his body drops, so that he hangs by them, face squeezing through again and it’s clear he’s looking right past Snow and Charming to Emma. “But you… oh, Pet, you I’ll tell everything.”

And he will, she knows this. Knew it weeks ago when she stood before him, trembling, weak and wishing only for it to be over. When he had taunted her with all the bad deeds Regina had done, the foolhardiness of Emma’s choice, the lascivious way he had licked his lips and told her about the curse and its price.

Emma is lost in this world, but having had time to consider it, she thinks Rumplestiltskin is an overblown, grotesque version of Mr. Gold, at least in his motivations. And Mr. Gold didn’t do or say anything when there wasn’t something in it for him. 

At the time, he wanted her to choke on Regina’s wickedness and now that she’s had time to stew it over, it’s obvious he’s ready to give her the answers she cannot hear. 

“I’m not making any deals with you.” It comes out strong, much stronger than she feels. “Not one.”

He giggles in response, voice rising in a sick melodic cadence.

Nobody wants her to move forward, not James nor Snow and least of all herself, and yet her feet are moving and she doesn’t take her eyes off the glee that sparks in his eyes. She shakes off the hands that try to stop her, flicking them away easily. 

“That’s right.” He cajoles, slowly climbing the bars again. “This way. Closer now.”

She thinks about Henry, who had laughed and played and chatted, more a child in the last five days than she had ever seen him before, about the strange group of growing friends in her mother’s castle, the girls she drank with in Storybrooke, the burgeoning relationship with her parents. 

Emma wants to listen to Rumplestiltskin more than anything. 

It’s exactly why she can’t. 

“It can’t be broken.” Emma’s confidence is Regina’s words, the explanations. “It’s ironclad.”

Her feet stop in front of the cage, just out of his reach as she retains enough sensibility to refuse him this much. His fingers grasp in the empty air, inches from touching her face. She can see the sickly green of his fingernails, the speckled darkness of his skin. 

“All curses can be broken.”

Her father’s voice sounds loud behind her and Emma would close her eyes if it weren’t for the laughter taunting them all in front of her. 

“What?” Rumplestiltskin mocks them. “With True Love’s Kiss? Again? Emma’s lips will just about fall off at this point.”

The delight dancing in his eyes when he says this makes Emma gasp, makes her falter as she loses her footing. It’s only a second, not even that, but it’s enough and she feels him take hold of her, feels her body spun around and slammed back against the bars, his hand to her throat to hold her still. 

Her back arches in a struggle to get away from him, but his grip is too tight and she feels his free hand come out between the bars to ward off the two figures rushing towards them. 

“Don’t worry, my love.” He soothes in her ear, fake and sweet. “No one is suggesting _you’re_ Regina’s _Twu Wuv_.”

One finger, scaley and yet warmer than she imagined it, skims the side of her face and she feels him inhaling her before he looks outwards. 

“Besides, the love of Regina’s life died a long time ago, didn’t he Snow White?”

The directness in his voice makes Emma look up and she sees the stricken look on Snow’s face as if someone slapped her. 

“No, no, no. This is not a curse, it’s not a spell.” His free hand gestures in the air as his voice trills the next three words. “It’s a contract! And a contract can’t be broken.”

Disappointment clouds Snow and Charming’s eyes in front of her, but it’s relief that makes Emma’s body sag. He must feel it, because he lets go and when she turns, he eyes her up and down, speculatively. 

“Unless…?”

“No.” She breaks in. “Don’t tell me.”

If he tells her, if there is an answer that will end this for her, Emma doesn’t want to know, she can’t. Because if she does, she won’t be able to stop thinking about it, she’ll be tempted, and it will make her servitude that much harder to bear. 

Emma knows in great detail, Regina did not spare her, what will happen to her family, to Henry and to her mother, let alone the whole kingdom, if she tries to renege on the deal. 

Anger flashes at her from his eyes, yellowed and threatening. 

“Yes.” Snow cries out behind her. “Tell us.”

He does a little dance, a jig in his cell as he leans back and laughs at the ceiling. 

“And why would I do that? I’m safer here, after all, behind these bars with Regina focusing on pretty little Emma here. She and I are not on good terms, you see, and if she decides to settle that score… No, I can’t let Regina with her powers loose on the land.”

And Emma feels the beginning, the spark of realisation. 

“Please.” She steps forward again, into his space. “Stop.”

Slamming himself back into the bars so that their faces are close, he leans his head sideways as if confused. 

“Stop?” But he’s not confused, she can see it, he’s calculating and shrewd. “Why should I stop? They’re obviously not going to.”

And she knows it, even before he looks behind her, knows that Snow and Charming will keep questioning until they have their answers, well-meaning in their attempt, until they have damned her and damned themselves. 

“But you, Emma, you…” She stands her ground, even as his scaly hand reaches out again and trails a finger over the collar around her neck. “Don’t let Regina fool you, sweetheart, you’re mine. Always were, given to me before you were born. By the two very people who love you the most. Ha ha.”

The giggle is not light hearted and shrill like the previous ones, this one is darker and obviously designed to give her chills down her spine. 

“And, if I recall, you still owe me a favour.” This time when their eyes meet, Emma knows it’s time and she knows that she will have no choice. In this world she is magically obliged to comply. “So, I’m calling it in. My favour… I want you to agree to work with me.”

Emma cocks her head, confused, surely he knows what will happen. He wouldn’t give up his favour so easily… and then it hits her. He doesn’t want her to break the contract, he doesn’t want her to know, and the people behind her won’t stop until he gives them the answers they seek. 

Closing her eyes, she breathes in. She still has two days left, two precious days of freedom. When she opens her eyes, she looks back to her parents. 

“Say goodbye to Henry for me.” And before they can react, Emma turns back to a delighted Rumplestiltskin. “Okay, let’s break this contract.”

It hits her hard and fast, steals her breath, as the very air around her begins to swell and throb. It feels like someone has sucker punched her in the gut and is now trying to rip her apart from the inside out, she doubles over as the sound of triumphant laughter echoes in her ears. 

“Emma!”

But it’s too late, she can’t answer her mother now, only reach back to grasp the hand she knows is there. 

***

There’s a crash, an electric crackling that echoes through the castle and Regina rolls her eyes skywards. 

It takes her minutes, if not seconds to reach her bedchamber, throwing open the door to find none other than Emma Swan standing there. Anger clouds her senses immediately. After five days, she had assumed she wouldn’t see Emma until the week was up. 

The woman is practically doubled over, clutching at her abdomen with her right hand, left hand flung out behind her, scrambling for a hold, some purchase to keep herself upright even as her knees buckle. 

“Stay up.” 

She hisses it out, a loud order, against the soft whine of Emma’s gasping pants. 

“I can’t… breathe…”

Emma stumbles down onto one knee, but Regina can see her grit her teeth, can see the flailing panic begin to subside, and then she’s clamouring back upright, swaying slightly on both feet. 

“Did you think it would be easy, Emma? It’s supposed to be a deterrent.”

Air whistles as it is sucked harshly into Emma’s lungs, through strained nostrils and clenched teeth. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, swimming drunkenly in an attempt to right themselves. Regina could push her over with one finger. 

“After all your promises, you barely last five days? You need to be punished.” She turns to her dresser with the large mirror, reaching up to take the heavy necklace from around her throat before she lifts the draping cloth. “Strip down and get on the bed.”

Even as Emma starts to obey with trembling hands, Regina’s eye catches something in the reflection. 

“Wait.” A flick of her wrist drapes the mirror and she spins on her heels and turns to face Emma. “Don’t move.”

Emma stands still, like a full sized doll, eyes focused on some point on the wall in front of her, trying her hardest not to react to Regina. Regina strides closer, eyes moving up and down to take all of the woman in. 

The dress is yellow, darker than the one Regina’s seamstresses had made her, almost golden. It tapers in at the waist and is tied at the front in matching, thick satin ribbons, white lace hemming the edges of the dress. But it is the fine golden filigree girdle skirting Emma’s waist, sitting delicately on the curves there, that catches Regina’s eye. 

Her fingers reach out to stroke the detail, thrilling to the ripple of muscle under her touch. 

“Such fine work.” It’s spoken very softly into Emma’s ear. “Worthy of a princess, wouldn’t you say?”

Emma’s eyes close, but she nods. 

“I bet they love you, don’t they? Their Princess.” Intrigued, she watches the flinch skim across Emma’s face, the tightening of her hand into a loose, listless fist at her side. Her voice goes cold as her hand flattens on Emma’s belly. “Do they bow down for you?”

The flesh under her fingers jumps at Emma’s gasp and Regina watches the little white buds of teeth come out to bite at her lip. The corner of Emma’s eyes crinkle underneath her closed lids. If she knows one thing, it is Emma Swan. 

“Did they leave tributes for their Princess?”

This time, when she does not receive an answer, Regina grabs the back of Emma’s hair and pulls. Emma’s neck snaps back and her mouth opens in a loud exhalation of pain. 

“Yes.” She gasps it eventually, a released distaste. “Lots of things, soaps and lotions and honey and preserves and breads, things, just… everything.”

And Regina can see it, little baskets left at the castle, at the chair in the dining hall where Emma sat, outside her door. Anything the townspeople could harvest or make or create in the short time they’d been back, had managed to reclaim from their old lives. 

“So, tell me.” But Regina already knows the answer as she leans forward and nuzzles against the rapid, bird beating pulse on Emma’s neck, she can smell it in the woman’s skin. “Do you thank them for it, use them? Get your fingers sticky suckling from the honeycomb?”

There is nothing on Emma’s neck but plain soap, fresh and clean and simple. 

It’s a slight, almost imperceptible shake of the head, but Regina catches it, relishes it, because she knows already and she shakes Emma’s hair firmly. A reminder. 

“No.” It comes as a gasp, even as Emma tries to recover it, tries desperately to take it back. “I… I mean… I give it to Henry, all the foods, I can’t…”

Every breath Emma takes shudders against Regina’s hand, her abdomen rising and falling, pushing against her, and she has a fleeting feeling of regret that this land lacks the invention of the camera. She would capture this moment, Emma Swan bent slightly back, quivering, her skin flushing red. 

“Details Emma.” She relishes the flinch her words cause. “And no lies. Tell me how it feels.”

“Like… like…” And Regina watches the flood of red over Emma’s face, the shame of it, her body deflating as she gives in. “Like payment for services rendered. Like I’m some kind of two dollar hooker.”

“Oh.” It’s a purr of sympathy, blatantly false, and Regina smiles at the feel of Emma bristling under her hands. “But isn’t that what you are? A whore for their happiness?”

She’s ready for it, that snap to attention, the rearing back as Emma begins to struggle. Regina easily deflects the hands that come up to shove her away, gripping Emma’s shoulders instead, her fingers closing tightly and painfully. 

As quickly as she flares, Emma stops. 

“Now.” Her hands slide down Emma’s arms and across her stomach, crawl up the expanse of her torso, up under her ribs to between her breasts, loosening the tie there until the material relaxes the strong hold it has on the gathered flesh. “Stop talking. Take it all off and get on the bed.”

She doesn’t have to watch to know that she’s being obeyed as she goes back to her dresser to rifle in the third drawer. She can feel it in the air, the silent despair and resentment bouncing off the walls, hear it in the soft slithering of cotton falling to the floor. 

When she turns back, Emma is sitting in the middle of the mattress, gloriously bare as she awaits further instruction. Her feet are crossed over at the ankle and Regina would swear it was a casual pose, defiantly so, if she didn’t know better, didn’t already know the woman was dreading what was about to happen. 

“On your back.” Carefully clipped words, Regina moves to the head of the bed, and reaches across to grab Emma’s wrist. “Arms out.”

Several crisp, clear metallic clinks later and Emma’s arms are shackled to the bed, her wrists spread out on either side and her eyes wide as she watches Regina with an open mouth, lips parted. Regina lets her eyes wander, takes in the elongated body on the bed, the curves of her hips and breasts, the pull and stretch of her arms out above her. 

The helplessness. 

“I hope you’re comfortable.” Easy, light voice, Regina can see the spark of suspicion in Emma’s face. Smart girl. “Two days, that’s all you had to wait. And so, two days you will spend here.”

Bringing one knee up, then the other, Regina climbs up on the bed, coming to rest between Emma’s legs as she parts them. For her part, Emma resists only slightly as her thighs are pulled open. Regina does not grudge her that reluctance as she holds up the small jar in her hand. 

“A simple cream, some herbs and other ingredients. Easily found in both worlds.” Regina keeps her voice neutral as she twists off the lid and dips her fingers into the cool substance. “I think they make a similar product back there. Although I’m sure it was never found in Storybrooke’s uptight little community.”

Wide eyed, Emma follows her every movement, twisting to get away the second Regina dips her cream slathered fingers between Emma’s legs. The woman hisses at the coolness and Regina smiles, honey sweet and lethal.

“It will warm up.” She reassures her, even as she slicks her fingers over Emma’s flesh, the heated folds. “It’s made to heat the blood, bring it to the surface, make the skin that much more sensitive.”

The understatement is clear. Sensitive does not even begin to describe the hyper-awareness of the nerve endings that Emma will soon discover, the acuteness of every touch. Regina leans down all the way, bringing her mouth in close to Emma’s. 

“You’re beginning to feel it, aren’t you?” She already knows the answer, can feel it in the slick wetness on her fingers that has nothing to do with the cream she spreads there. “You’ll feel everything I do to you. And you will not allow yourself to come until I say so, is that clear?”

“But… but…?”

The confusion is clear, clouding Emma’s eyes and face. It’s evident that Emma Swan had envisaged a much harsher punishment than this. Regina smiles, all teeth as she withdraws her fingers and wipes them clean on the pants leg of her suit. 

“Is that clear, Emma?”

She gets her nod and Regina fairly chuckles as she reaches out, drawing a light circle around Emma’s navel, trailing her long fingernail across sensitive soft skin. She draws all the energy out of the room around her, concentrates it into her arm, around her elbow and further, coalescing down towards her wrist until it swarms in her fingers. 

Then she pushes it hard into Emma’s abdomen, forces it deep into her belly, down into her core and watches as Emma arches off the bed, back bowed with her mouth open. 

Immediately Regina can see the results, Emma’s skin flushing a deep red, her breath coming short and shallow, sweat beading between her breasts and on her face and neck, her pupils dilated and blown out with lust. 

“What…?” Emma gasps, voice thick and husky and needy. “What did you do?”

“It’s a simple spell.” Regina informs her. “To keep you on the edge, keep your body wanting and desperate, always reaching and never getting. I hear it’s pure torture, really.” 

She leans back to take in her handy work, Emma struggling not to writhe like a cat in heat on the bed, spread open and wide around her. And failing miserably. Experimentally, she reaches out and twists an engorged nipple, tweaking it. The resultant cry is worth it as Emma chokes it back. 

“Magic.” Emma hisses, her fingers curling and uncurling in the manacles that hold them. “But you said…”

“Yes, I said I wouldn’t use magic on you anymore.” Regina shrugs. “But you said you wouldn’t try to break our contract. I guess we both lied.”

Crawling up the body underneath her, Regina feels a heat radiating from her, almost unbearable, a flame of skin. She feels the twisting form, the struggle of Emma trying not to react as she brings her face down close to Emma’s. 

The second she brings her hand back between Emma’s thighs, the woman cries out, unable to stop the bucking at the heightened sensation. 

“You bought this on yourself, dear.” One, then two fingers push in hard and unforgiving as Regina catalogues Emma’s reaction, the gritting of her teeth, the twisting of her limbs. “You will learn patience. Patience to accept what you cannot control.”

Thrusting slow and steady, Regina keeps the rest of herself off the woman underneath her, doesn’t touch her in any other way, and Emma keens, biting her lips to stop the noises that come out anyway. 

“If I catch you even considering bringing your legs together to get extra friction, I will make it three days, then four, until you can’t breathe and your body breaks and you beg me to just kill you. Do you understand?”

Quick, thrashing, desperate nods. 

And Regina sits back, pulls her fingers away to the sound of Emma’s disappointed strangled moan. 

***


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The human body is a frail thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Characters/Pairing:** Evil Queen/Emma, Graham, Graham/Emma/Regina, the usual cast of Henry, Snow, Charming, Red, Grumpy, Rumplestiltskin, the guy who crossed the screen back in the crowd of the pilot episode... everyone is fair game.  
>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.  Male pairing included in this chapter, but only this chapter.  
>  **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.  
>  **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** Don't think about it, just... do this. For me.  
>  **Wordcount:** This chapter? 9, 645.

***

It comes to him, a scent on the non-existent breeze, twisting and rolling in the air until it teases his nostrils. 

“So you came back, did you, Dearie?” When he sits up from the bunk of straw and turns around he takes her in. “No costumes or draping this time?”

Snow shakes her head, her eyes never faltering, and Rumplestiltskin grins. 

She likes to deny it, still too deep in denial and resentment to admit or accept her other life, but her time as a mousy school teacher and the repercussions from it have added more steel to what was admittedly an already molten spine. 

He licks his teeth to taste the air, taste her on it, and doesn’t sense any fear.

Just desperation. 

“Where’s your right hand man?” His wrist undulates between the bars, leisurely gesturing in the air as if they have all the time in the world. “Busy consoling the boy because you stole his mother away all too soon?”

He’s just a little surprised when she doesn’t react. 

“I know what you want, Rumplestiltskin.”

Now that _does_ spike his interest. 

“A room with a view?” He taps his bottom lip in feigned thought. “Your first bo… oh, wait.”

The narrowing of her eyes amuses him enough to pop that memory in the box inside his head. He has to keep something to while away the many hours he spends looking at earthen walls. 

“I know where Belle is.”

She says it flatly, so calmly he thinks she means something else, because surely information of such import should be trumpeted with fanfare. But his small, dark, shrunken heart stops completely for a beat and he can’t really breathe until he stands up straight, all serious, and clutches the bars. 

“Tell me!” This time the sudden noise makes her grimace. “You tell me now!”

Her shoulders shuffle and he can just about see her accepting the weight that comes with taking the power in the room. It’s a physical thing, visible, and she wears it well. 

“I think this is where I demand you give me what I want first.” Snow swallows. “Isn’t that how it goes?”

Anger seeps in, tries to claw its way into his head, but he bites down hard on it. It won’t help him here. She’s right and she knows it. She could walk out right now and not tell him a thing. 

“You can’t break the contract.” Rumplestiltskin laughs at her, his persona back on show. “Not a one of us can. Not by magic or love nor any other means. You just have to wait it out.”

Without a word she spins around, drawing her cape around her shoulders as she takes her first steps. 

“Wait!” He doesn’t let her get far and she spins back. “I helped you! I helped your husband, all the way!”

It’s a small thing, he might have missed it if he wasn’t looking, but he is and he sees it, the gasp. An opening of her mouth with fire in her eyes, that surge to bitterness. It’s over quickly, gone in an instant, and she smooths out her face. 

Lovely Snow White again. 

“You helped yourself. You got exactly what you wanted. Don’t pretend to be altruistic now.”

The realization sparks in her eyes as she pieces the puzzles together in front of him. Truthfully, he figured she would know already. 

“You needed us together to make Emma.” This time she lets the anger stay, Mama Bear in full force. “Tell me why Emma? Why does it always have to be Emma?”

By her expression, his trill of laughter sears her skin. 

“She’s the child of True Love! That’s magic older and more powerful than Regina and I combined.” Even as Snow quirks her head, Rumplestiltskin unfurls, twisting his body in pleasure at the growing distress in her eyes. “And Emma’s full of it. All powerful beings will be drawn to her, dark ones even more so. It’s… marvellously tempting.”

“You lie!” She steps forward, angry and hurt and still so very desperate. “Emma has no magic, not even The Hatter could find any.”

The _Hatter_? He could fall down laughing if he let himself. So blind. The lot of them. 

“Yes, she does. She’s practically brimming with it!” Then his voice gets serious. “Had she grown here, with you, surrounded by love and the energy of magicks all around her, she would have come into her own long ago.”

It’s there, scaling in her face, he can see it. Hell, he can practically _taste_ it, all those pretty pictures in Snow’s head. A blonde child sitting on her lap, Snow running a brush through her hair as she braids it. Songs sung over a cradle to a chubby cheeked tot. Games and laughter and hugs and even tears. 

A lifetime lost. 

“Tell me, Snow.” He reaches out, tries to draw her near. “What does the Blue Fairy say about it? The contract you’re so eager to break.”

Because if she wants to play, then he’s always up for the task. He cannot even fathom letting her walk out of this unscathed, for trying to beat him at his own game. 

“She… she hasn’t said much. Nothing more than you.”

And he laughs. 

“I bet she hasn’t. I bet she’s been off looking for ways to get to Regina, preparing for the battle that’s never coming? Making every excuse under the sun to be away from you as much as she can.” He doesn’t even wait for her to ask. “Wonder what she’s hiding, Snow? I wonder, I do, if she told you about that wardrobe.”

Suspicion narrows her eyes, but he doesn’t stop, because everyone knows he doesn’t lie. 

“Did she ever tell you it held two? That you were supposed to be with Emma her whole life?”

He can see the very moment her breath stops and her heart breaks. 

“No?” It’s a mean laugh, pointed. “Guess it’s not something she wants to broadcast. Selling your child’s happiness to save the life of a wooden boy.”

Snow shakes her head, trying not to hear him, trying to force the doubts from her mind. 

“No. She would have tried to find another way, she would have fought for us.”

Rumplestiltskin waggles his head, a mockery of her own shaking. 

“Didn’t fight too hard, did she? You never knew it held two. You never got a chance to plead for your daughter. She used you, used your child more than I ever did. She wanted Emma broken by that world. She needed it. For her own plans.”

The words act like spears, piercing her confidence one by one. Her shoulders droop and her spine sags, softer now than she has been since they all came back. 

“Why?” It’s a plea, a little bit broken, as if she’s forgotten she’s got the power. “Why would anyone want that?”

It’s as if she can’t imagine why anyone would need to break a child, but then she’s Snow White, he guesses that thought process is as alien to her as those of Regina and himself. 

“Why would anyone need a hero too soft to win? The little blue bitch isn’t finished with her. The battle’s not over, yet.” And then he leans sideways against the bars, inspects the gnarled fingernails of his right hand. “Now, you tell me what I want to know, before I tell you anymore.”

Frustration clenches her teeth together and the wheels are visible turning in her head. 

“She’s alive and well and free.” The words sink into his chest, relieving a pressure that has been building for over a month. “Living in your castle. She doesn’t want to join us, she wants to keep it ready.”

The distaste is obvious in her voice and the words _for you_ don’t even need to be said. He hears them. 

“Now tell me about Emma. What do you mean the battle’s not over?”

So, so blind. Every last one of them. It’s amusing how much they chase their tails, turning in circles smaller that the cage they keep him in. 

“We’re here alright, we know who we are. But the curse isn’t broken. Do you see anyone living happily ever after?” The inflection rises like one, but it’s not really a question if they both know the answer. “Good didn’t win, evil’s still running rampant. It’s just happening in a different setting.”

She opens her mouth, but he continues before she can make any more embarrassing, empty threats. 

“Emma had to have walls, she had to have defences.” This time when he leans against the bars, it’s face first, so he can see her expression. “She needed to grow up in a cruel system that broke her down, because she needs to be able to take whatever Regina dishes out and know how to survive. She’s the only one.”

Looking up and to the left, she tries to hide it, but he sees the tears gather in the corner of her eyes. 

“But she’s not surviving.” This time her voice really is weak. “She’s breaking.”

And he sighs. 

“She’s stronger than even you think.” And, because perhaps she’s paid enough, perhaps he always has had a soft spot for this woman and her husband, he continues. “It’s her walls that are breaking. Not Emma. And it’s her walls that are stopping her finding that magic inside her.”

This time when she looks at him, he knows she understands the gift that he’s given her. 

“She’ll find it soon enough, it’s already trying to break through.”

And then, because he is Rumplestiltskin and he never disappoints when people expect a show, he cackles a warning, loud and harsh, and spirals his hand into the air. 

“And then the fireworks will really begin!”

***

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and flinches at the bursts of colour that stain the insides of her lids. 

She has lost count of time and cannot tell whether it has been hours or days, if she is nearing the end of this torture or less than half way through. Her shoulders ache, the muscles of her arms pulled tight and stretched with the fight she cannot control, wrenching horribly to get free. There may even be physical damage, but she cannot be sure. 

It crests over her in waves, this large engulfing heat that threatens to immolate her. Her whimpers and gasps and cries have made her throat hoarse, her mouth dry and voice cracked. Her body burns, struggles, tries desperately to reach for release. 

She knows that if she could only get there, clench her thighs tight for that elusive friction, finally get that wave to crest, then she could breathe. But she can’t. Even trying to force it, body clenching in on itself, trying to push her own release out, she is forbidden. The magic prevents even that. 

And so she teeters, sobs, tries to remember the difference between pleasure and pain. 

Her eyes roll helplessly around the room when she opens them, skimming over the cold walls and warm tapestries, the fireplace that Regina has kept stoked and searing to further enflame her. This room has seen the worst of her. 

She has been beaten and broken and bled out on this floor, screamed and cried and forced to come against her will, again and again. It should be a chamber of horrors, this is what she should see in her nightmares. 

This is where Regina tries to break her repeatedly, but this is also where Regina has failed. 

Emma still stands at the end of it all. Regina has yet to find a punishment, an act of cruelty harsh enough to break her. She knows, as she has known most of her life that the bad times will end, just like the good. Everything ends eventually. 

If only she can wait this last horror out, it will pass. And so will the next and the one after that. 

She has a lifetime’s training of living in the good cracks that come between the bad. 

“Emma.” Regina’s low, deep voice makes Emma’s body snap. “How are you doing?”

Regina, who comes and goes at random intervals, who leaves her for great stretches at a time, only to reappear again and again in quick succession to further incite her body to agonising peaks. She lets Emma free of the shackles for small periods of time, but only long enough to tend to certain needs, never long enough to be free from the constant torture. 

Emma’s answer is a sob, not caring at all if this gives Regina exactly what she wants. In her first few visits, Emma resisted Regina, defied her until the woman took it out on her in spades. Now she is beyond that, now she cares very little who has the upper hand. 

Her body betrays her, pussy throbbing and pulsing in tune to the woman’s voice, the click of her footsteps across the floor. 

“Please.” It comes out harsh and strained as she feels the dip in the feather packed mattress, sees the woman sitting on the edge of the bed. “Please, My Queen, I’ll do anything, please.”

And Regina laughs, causing a well of acidic resentment in Emma’s chest. 

“My dear, you’ll have to bargain with something I don’t already have if you want to be effective.”

Emma feels the touch seconds before it happens, a hand on her leg, a simple enough gesture at any other time, but now it sears her flesh, electrifying her synapses. 

“Focus, Emma. Look at me, now.” As Emma blinks, she sees Regina holding up a metal object, two silvery lines running parallel to join up at one end and Emma feels her heart sink. “Do you know what this is?”

Her head thrashes as her body jerks. 

“Nooooo.” It’s all the plea she has left, even as Regina smiles. “No, no, no, no.”

“Well, that saves some explanation at least.”’

Pleased with herself and pleased with Emma’s understanding, Regina reaches out and taps the tuning fork against the bed frame. The rising cadence of vibration assaults Emma’s ears as a harsh warning before Regina plants the thrumming object squarely between her legs. 

Emma’s back arches violently and the shriek rips brutally from her throat. 

***

Regina is quite impressed with how Emma has held out. 

All good things have to come to an end and she strides over to the bed to look down at the woman. She’s no longer crying or begging or making any kind of coherent sound at all, instead Emma lies there _quivering_ , her mouth fluttering in a constant hum of aching. 

The spell is a good one, but it is not meant to be used for this length of time. It was designed for lovers to tease each other for an hour, maybe several if they were adventurous enough, but for the very obvious reason lying in front of her, it is not meant to be dragged out for days. 

The human body is a frail thing. 

Emma has always been responsive, it’s part of the reason Regina has watched her this far, but she has also been guarded, protecting herself and her reactions. Now, oh… now all Regina has to do make a simple fluttering gesture with her hand and Emma practically thrums her body, to say nothing of what the woman does at the sound of her voice. 

She crawls up Emma’s body smiling at the knowledge that there is no resistance. 

“I have been through your chamber.” Regina tells her, not completely sure that the woman can hear, let alone process her words. “And I have taken all your undergarments.”

With a quick flick of her wrists, the manacles are gone and Emma’s arms flop down to the bed. Regina can feel the urge in her, knows the first instinct is for Emma to pull her arms in close to her chest, cover herself, protect herself, but the woman inhales rapidly as she strains to keep her arms by her side. 

“You only have your outer clothes left and they are only for other people.” Lowering herself so that she covers the trembling body under hers, Regina whispers in her ear. “The only thing you are to wear in my presence is your leash. Do you understand?”

Amidst the whimpers, Emma nods. It’s obvious she knows the end of her torture is near, she’s that desperate to agree to anything. Regina reaches between their bodies and flattens her palm over Emma’s abdomen. 

Inside, she can feel the swarm of energy, a black pool of pulsing need. She twirls it, circling the skin until she can drag every last trace of it, like a carnie scooping cotton candy, then she pulls it out of her, a long, slow, dark cloud. 

Emma’s body convulses and sobs break out of her throat. Even as Regina can see the climaxes hit her one after the other, she recognises the sounds as pain and not pleasure. She waits, eyes scanning the chamber as she sits on the mattress, pretending for all the lands like there is not a body shuddering and crying out next to her. 

Eventually, Emma quietens, the harsh rocking of her body easing down into occasional tremors and a soft, low keening. With a small dip of the mattress underneath her, Regina feels Emma’s body coil around hers. 

With knees around her left hip, Emma’s abdomen and chest around her back and her head and shoulders on her right hip, Regina looks down at the woman curled around her like a comma. 

“Thank you.” Emma hisses out between the hitching jerks of her breathing. “Thank you, My Queen.”

Regina reaches down with one hand and traces the pale criss-crossing scars over Emma’s back. 

And smiles.

***

The blade of the knife is sharp as she tests it with the pad of her thumb. 

Snow’s fingers are red, stinging with the cold morning air and what she really wants to do is put on some heavy gloves and sit at the table in front of the hearth, wrap her hands around a mug of warm chocolate and laugh with her family. 

Instead, she sets her jaw and flicks her wrist, sending the knife twirling end over end until it thuds into the target between the trees. 

Frost streams out of her mouth and she nods, almost satisfied with her aim. 

Someone has to fight this war, Snow knows it. She can’t let Rumplestiltskin use Emma for his own gain. The way he’d hinted that letting Emma stay there, stay with Regina and slowly being broken, would bring out some ancient force within her. 

She could only imagine the way Regina’s influence would warp that magic, the way Rumplestiltskin would. The way they would both use her until there was nothing left and then discard her when they were done. 

“Something on your mind, Sister?”

She spins, another blade already in her hand, but she knows who it is before she sees him. Her shoulders fall and she rolls her neck, satisfied to hear and feel a loud crack. He must hear it, too, because he grimaces in sympathy. 

“Nothing.” She replies with a shrug. “Everything.”

He picks up one of the many knives she has in a basket and eyes the blade, waiting for her to elaborate. 

“Oh, Grumpy.” Snow says it like settling into an old pillow. “We failed.”

The eyebrow he quirks at her is thick and bushy and disbelieving. 

“Emma.” Snow elaborates further. “We’ve done nothing but fail her.”

His blade whizzes through the air and Snow watches it thump wildly off course, scraping the edge of the target. Grumpy just shrugs and pulls the pick from the holder on his back, thumb sliding over the metal curve like it’s an old friend. 

“I don’t think she sees it that way.”

And Snow huffs as she aims again, a serrated blade this time. It buries itself deeply in the centre of the target and Grumpy gives her a side eye. 

“Every time I try to make it better, I just seem to make things worse for her.”

The pick axe slides itself easily between her two blades, effectively knocking them to the ground and Grumpy ruffles his shoulders. 

“That woman loves you.” At Snow’s raised eyebrow, he adds. “… in her own way.”

The absurdity of Grumpy hinting at another’s inability to properly show affection makes the corner of Snow’s mouth curve a little. But only temporarily. 

“Putting her in the wardrobe was supposed to save her. And look at the life it gave her! And now…” Her hands skitter in the air, as frustrated as the rest of her, at her inability to explain how she feels. “… now the curse is broken? She’s lost everything and now she’s Regina’s play thing! We’ve done nothing to help her! How am I supposed to think she feels anything but hatred for me?”

It’s not pity that makes him frown at her, it’s disappointment. She’s seen that look before and he usually has a good reason to give it. 

“Yeah. Because you’ve never done anything to help her?” He pushes a little into her space, not for intimidation but merely to make his point. “Who gave her a place to stay when everyone else bowed to Regina and kicked her out? Who convinced her to stay when she wanted to leave? Who became her first friend in Storybrooke?”

“That wasn’t me, Grumpy.” Snow deflates a little, shaking her head sadly. “It was all Mary Margaret.”

“It was you shining through Mary Margaret.” He insists. “And you should give her enough credit to know she realizes it. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, there and here, when you’re not looking. She needs you, Snow, whether she can say it or not.”

She wants to believe him. She’s desperate to believe him. If she let herself, she could do it. But frustration bubbles up and makes her move, makes her stamp her feet in the earth to warm her legs, reach out to grab two short swords out of the basket and twirl them experimentally, testing their weight. 

“I just can’t sit here anymore.” It blurts out of her mouth without thinking. “It makes me feel so helpless. If you take away twenty eight stolen years, it’s only been a matter of months since the lot of us were storming castles and waging warfare. Now? Now we’re sitting back and pretending it’s okay to be sending my grown daughter off like a piece of meat! I can’t do that!”

The swords thunk against a nearby tree trunk, one two, and she yanks them back, circling her wrists to heft them into position again. 

“Look around, Sister, it _has_ been twenty eight years.” His reminder comes as a slap in the face. “Our top fighters have been bakers eating leftover donuts, cinema attendants sweeping popcorn off the floor, telephone operators sitting on chairs. For twenty eight years. None of us are ready, Snow. That’s why we’re training, it’s gonna take time to get us back in shape.”

Snow swings the blades again, spinning against the tree once more. Her right hand buries the sword deeply into the bark and she cannot simply pull it free. 

“And meanwhile, Emma is breaking.” She pulls with all her strength, even lifting one leg to push against the tree. “She’s getting worse, Grumpy, and there’s nothing I can do.”

When the small sword does break from the tree it sends Snow overbalancing, falling into the frost packed earth where she bends around her abdomen, aching where the hilt of the sword hit her. Winded, she reaches up to take the hand Grumpy has offered her. 

Her brain curls around the memory of Emma on the ground, fighting as Jefferson tried to overpower her, it brings her full force back to standing in his front yard and Emma near tears, pleading for Mary not to take her family away. Family. Even before she’d had proof, Emma had named Mary Margaret as family, despite her immediate instinct to take it back. 

Snow had not seen Emma when she’d woken up back in the Enchanted Forest, hadn’t seen her for two weeks, she hadn’t seen her immediate reaction to realizing the absolute truth of it. But she remembers their first meeting, how Emma had clung to her, and since then how Emma had gravitated towards her, however reluctant she seemed to be to accept overt affection. 

“Except be there for her.” Snow says softly, to the glint of congratulation in Grumpy’s eyes. “To continue playing happy families for as long as she needs.”

“Regina made that contract watertight.” Grumpy feels the need to tell her, as if she doesn’t know. “It can’t be broken by any of us without dire results, for the kingdom and for Emma. She knows it.”

She gives a half-hearted attempt at a smile. 

“So I keep being told.”

“So.” Grumpy nods, the sympathy shining strong from his eyes and this is why she loves him. “Now that’s over, you coming to eat some breakfast? There’s a castle of people in there waiting for you.”

“No.” Walking back towards the target, Snow collects the fallen knives. “I might have to play happy while she’s here, but I still have a war to prepare for when she’s not.”

***

Emma stands straight, her hand on the back of her chair, watching the serving girl bring platters to the table. 

Like everyone else in the castle, the girl doesn’t meet her eyes, does not even acknowledge her presence. At first it piqued her curiosity, then she ignored it and now it has begun to trouble her. She is playing straight into Regina’s hands. It’s obvious, by the way they duck and curtsy and speak to Regina, that it is her orders that keep them from her. She is nothing more than a pet and this further dehumanizes her. 

Like the leash around her neck and the way her clothes are stripped as soon as they’re alone. 

It bothers her, but she bites back any reaction, staying still and docile, merely watching until the girl leaves the room for good. Emma barely even knows what dress she’s wearing now, a simple gown that chafes at her without any under garments, rubbing against her nipples until they’re constantly peaked and oversensitive. 

She cannot say for sure, though, if this is merely the dress or her body’s conditioning to Regina’s presence. 

As soon as the door closes, Regina lifts her hand and Emma feels the now familiar _whoosh_ of the gown disappearing. Her skin prickles against the heat of the flames in the fireplace and she’s grateful, yet again, for the fact that Regina swapped dining places with her so that she is closer to the heat. 

“You can sit, dear.”

She does it so effortlessly, Regina, ruling her world and undercutting everyone, as if she’s confident in her knowledge that the land owes her, that she can demand and demand and demand and that balance of power will never shift, the debt never repaid. 

It has only taken days for Emma to lose sight of her nakedness. She thought it would be horrifying, different to being stripped down merely for sex and then dismissed, this is her body on display and she knows Regina watches her. With dark, pointed, cruel eyes Regina takes pleasure in every stumble or flush of shame that crosses Emma’s face. 

Emma cannot find it in herself to care. She knows she should, knows that every single part of this situation is wrong, rotten to the core. When Regina had described that spell as torture, she hadn’t been lying. And yet, when the last vestiges of magic had left her, Regina drawing it out of her body, Emma felt something take over. 

All the agony had left and along with it went her resistance. It had floated away and she’d lain on the mattress, curled herself around the woman who’d done it to her in the first place, and felt a peace she could not remember. 

Regina, she has received the message loud and clear, is the bringer of pain and harmony and violence and tenderness. Regina controls Emma’s world and there is nothing for Emma to do but let her. 

A weight has been lifted from her shoulders, a heavy, dragging burden she does not recall shouldering, but has carried for as long as she can remember. It not her responsibility anymore. The weightlessness of it is a physical thing, freeing her spine and lifting her posture. 

Now she sits and waits silently as Regina serves her a plate, already familiar with the feel of the hard wooden chair against her bare backside, her spine, the absurd feel of her breasts sitting out in front as she lifts her knife and fork. 

Her brain ticks over as she eats, nibbling her food under the ever watchful gaze of Regina, and she knows it has been too peaceful. It’s been a week since Regina loosed her from that spell and she has done nothing extreme since. 

There has been no torture and no magic used against her, save small benign things like the removal or return of clothes at will. Even Regina has been almost pleasant as long as Emma obeys instructions. Certainly, Emma has not bled or cried or begged and for this she counts small mercies. 

The more Regina holds back, the closer Emma watches and what she sees doesn’t fill her with any great vindication as she thought it would. While her staff and her guards do address her, Her Majesty the Queen is as isolated as her captive. There is no one that visits and Regina stays forever bound in this dark castle as if she were the prisoner. 

She stays, with nothing to do and nobody to focus her energy on. Except Emma. 

And Emma knows something is coming. 

The longer it stretches out, the worse Emma knows it will be. She almost wishes for the lashing again, anything, as long as it happens. As she lifts her fork to her mouth again, Regina speaks. 

“You’re coming along quite nicely.”

Knowledge pools in Emma’s belly, any thicker and it would be dread, but outwardly she merely nods. 

“Yes, My Queen.”

Amusement sparkles brightly in Regina’s eyes as they size her up and Emma knows tonight is the night. All at once she is grateful. Peace swarms over her and she can relax. It will be bad, she knows, but it will happen and then be over. 

One long, crisp fingernail trails over her forearm and she watches it. The urge to pull her arm away is dulled, buried, and Emma feels it trying to break through, but it doesn’t. Her skin flushes instead and she ducks her head to hide the blush. 

But Regina’s lips curve up anyway, she saw, and then her hand lifts up to the top of Emma’s head and gently slides down her cheek. 

Emma wants to stop the little shiver of pleasure, but she can’t, and shame floods her at this weakness even as she nestles into the hand. This, more than anything, hits home that she is giving in, she has lost herself and playing the part of Regina’s pet has become less of a role and more of a fact. 

Any gentle touch and she melts and Regina knows it.

“I was thinking we might have a guest after dinner.”

The words come like a suggestion, as if Emma really has any say in the matter, but she can feel the expectation rise in Regina, her watchful gaze, and knows that she is not meant to like it. 

Anticipation cuts evenly with Regina’s shrewd calculation and immediately Emma’s brain goes into overdrive. Regina is waiting for a reaction, wants it badly, and this can only mean one thing. The guest is either someone she knows or someone that will mean something to her. 

She cannot think. Everyone else that she knows is at Snow’s castle. There is no one she can think of that will come here deliberately to cause her more discomfort and by Regina’s own words, her very contract, she is unable to take any one of Snow’s people against their will. Emma is the only prisoner here, she made sure of that. 

Emma has never been good at puzzles and the mystery saps her appetite. She lets her knife and fork fall to the plate and sits back. There is nothing to do, she feels it in her bones, Regina will have her way and whatever she has planned will happen. There is nothing to do but wait and let Regina fill her cup. 

If for no other reason, Emma would know tonight holds something to fear as the cider washes over her tongue and down her throat, different and more potent that the sweet wines they usually drink. As if Regina is daring her to remember, to make the connect of poison and danger. 

Regina fills her cup a second time and then guides it with one finger to the bottom, tilting it across Emma’s lips and holding it, giving her no avenue other than to swallow again and again. 

A buzz leaves her blinking, a strange mixture of sated warmth and edgy nerves. 

Before she can process exactly what’s happening, Emma feels a gentle tugging at her neck. She follows without thinking, letting the leash guide her up out of the chair, watching distantly as an already standing Regina wraps the delicate chain around her wrist. 

She knows this routine and Emma falls to her knees at Regina’s feet even before the chain has forced her there, but it doesn’t stop Regina until her wrist is drawn tight against Emma’s neck, pushing her head back so that her eyes are facing upwards. 

“So obedient.” Regina trills, so strangely soft it makes Emma dizzy. “You learn very well.”

The cider has left her tingling, slow and dulled, and she does not even bother hiding the little hum of pleasure at this odd approval. Were she a cat, Emma thinks, she would be arching her back and purring right now. 

“Now.” And then Regina leans down just far enough to bring her mouth close to Emma’s ear. “I expect you to stay obedient and follow my every command.”

It’s a strange request, Emma doesn’t quite understand it and her brain must be more fogged than she thinks, because Emma has done nothing but obey. She hasn’t fought since they first signed the contract, unless expressly asked to. 

With a wave of her hand, Regina clears the table and causes the far door to open. Two guards stride in and between them stumbles a hooded figure, hands tied behind him. It’s obviously male and her brain scrambles, trying to place him as he’s deposited roughly at Regina’s feet.

By the clothes alone, Emma wonders if she might not be about to meet Robin Hood. 

A hand strokes the top of her head, seemingly idly, but she knows that every move Regina makes is planned. 

“Do you remember the dragon?”

A shudder passes through her. As if she could forget. Reeling with the sudden knowledge of magic and true fairy tales and curses, she had battled a dragon with a sword. Something ticks, a light pressure in the back of her mind. Regina and Mr. Gold hatching a plan. 

She nods, but this is impossible, even cider fugued Emma knows this and not only because she distinctly remembers them referring to the friend as female, but because they both know she slayed the dragon. It exploded into small fiery pieces, very unlikely to come back. And certainly not as a male captive twisting at Regina’s feet. 

Her thought process must show in her face, because laughter bubbles above her, but it’s not pleasant. A muffled growl sounds from underneath the hooded figure and Emma lets her eyes slide over his combative form. 

“You may have killed the beast, but apparently the woman lives in this world. Death doesn’t seem to stick across the realms.” Regina’s stroke softens and then leaves her, the only contact now the slight shifting of the leash against her skin. “She came to visit last week, mainly to request some time with you to repay that favour.”

Emma never met the sorceress they talked about, but the danger hinted in Regina’s voice does nothing less than cause her to shiver. 

“But also to return this little trinket that was found wandering the forest. Apparently, he’d been there for months, living with the animals. Now he’s spent the week back in my dungeons.”

Seconds before Regina lifts the hood, Emma’s brain catches up with her. She can barely believe it, but sure enough the face that meets hers is Graham. Her breath catches, icy hot in her chest, threatening to pound her into submission. 

Before she knows what she’s doing, a low moan rumbles out of the bottom of her throat and she stumbles forward. Her left hand catches his chin and her right the side of his face, as if she has to prove to herself that he’s really there. 

“Graham.” She whispers it like a mantra, eyes roaming his face as he stares back at her with a matching look of disbelief. “Oh my god, Graham.”

“Emma?” Is the only croak he gives. “Is it…?”

She’s there, back in that small little sheriff’s office, suddenly so distant and unreal to her brain, and she can feel the tears well up, wanting nothing more than to kiss him. She does, once, a firm press of her lips against his forehead, a claiming of his skin again, and another reassurance that he’s real. 

His skin is rougher, his beard coarser and thicker, his curls wilder and he smells different. There is no trace of the aftershave she remembers, he smells vaguely of beasts and something green. His eyes are harder here, sharper and colder. 

And then she feels him pull back slightly. It makes her look at his face and she sees that he is suddenly not meeting her eyes. It slams back into her like a physical hit and she falls back, lets him go and brings her hands in close to her body. 

For the first time in days she is aware of her own nudity, the shame of the leash around her neck, kneeling on the ground. 

“What did you do?” His voice thickens with anger as he turns to look up at Regina. “What did you do to her, you evil…”

It’s a simple click of Regina’s fingers to close his mouth and Emma can’t move as she watches Regina force him to a standing position with one pointed fingernail under his chin. 

“Look who got his heart back.” Regina sneers at him. “And all it took was your death. Well, no mind, we can correct that easily enough.”

The growl that emanates from Graham’s throat is feral, but it is not that that sparks Emma into action, it’s the way Regina’s hand stops too casually on the left side of his chest, her fingers landing one by one like spider legs. 

Not even Emma needs an explanation for that gesture. 

“No!” Her outburst shocks her and she pushes herself between their legs, flattening herself against Regina as she nudges him away, her cheek pressing into the black folds of the billowing skirt. “Please, My Queen, anything. I’ll do anything, but leave him alone. Let him go. That was the deal, me for everyone. Please.”

She cannot look at his face, at the realization that sparks there, whatever judgement he might have. And the deep, victorious laughter that bubbles out of Regina’s lips makes Emma think she has played once again straight into the trap. 

One finger slides down her cheek and pulls her face upward. 

“She pleads for you quite nicely, doesn’t she, Huntsman?” And suddenly Emma knows her place, on show as Regina caresses the side of her neck, not even looking down to see the effect on her. “Are you willing to offer the same for her?”

A small clink of metal sounds and Emma barely has time to wonder what it is before she feels a second hand at her neck, rougher in texture but gentler in touch. His chains slink to the floor, briefly clattering against her thigh on the way down. 

“You’ve collared her.” Is Graham’s sneered reply. “I can’t bargain her out of that, can I, Your Highness?”

“No.” Regina doesn’t waste words or any space as her hand flattens on the side of Emma’s face, claiming the larger expanse of skin, marking her territory. “But are you not willing to barter for some leniency for her? No assurance that I don’t hurt her more than I should? Surely you know better than most what happens in these walls.”

His hand is still against her neck, but his fingers shake and his pinky scratches a warm caress underneath her ear. The movement is small enough Emma thinks perhaps Regina can’t see it. It flutters something inside her as she closes her eyes and holds her breath. 

“You’re despicable.” It’s a low growl and Emma feels the strength behind it in the tremor of his hand, but the tension leaves him a second later and he sighs. “What do you want?”

Regina’s second hand joins the first, sliding over her face and down her neck as Graham pulls away, then down to her shoulders. 

“You.” Regina states crisply and Emma barely has time to prepare before she is thrust backwards, body colliding with his as he tries to catch her. “And her.”

There’s a moment of scrabbling, hands landing on her and sliding on skin, trying to find a safe place to touch as the calf of her right leg scrapes on the stone floor and her own hands come up and grasp at the sides of his thighs to balance. 

As soon as she is safely upright, his hands leave her. 

“You’re crazy.” He’s still seething, but his voice has deepened. “If you think I would…”

But Regina turns her back and stalks across the floor, coming to a stop in front of the large throne like chair in front of the fireplace, only then turning back to face them before she settles herself down. 

“I’m tired of arguing.” She declares with narrowed eyes. “Emma, convince him. For his sake, if not your own.”

It should surprise her, she should be mortified and begging for clemency, yet all she feels is certain inevitability. Regina has aimed with precision accuracy once again. Emma has been the perfect pet, she has given no fight to anything Regina has done and so Regina has done nothing as she waited for this moment. Waited for the next thing she feels sure to break Emma with. 

But perhaps Regina has overplayed her hand, because Emma doesn’t crack under this new order, she feels nothing but the all too familiar eddying of arousal. Her body acts without her permission even now, trained to respond to Regina’s demand. 

She doesn’t know who it surprises more when she places her hand on his stomach, fingers splayed out, and leans into it as she stands up, slowly rising until she can look Graham in the eye. He shakes his head, a plea to her this time and she can see the denial in his eyes. 

“It’s okay.” And the flesh under her hand, the flat packed abdomen of a man living off the forest, trembles under her skin. “You can do this.”

“Emma, no.”

But even as he shakes his head a second time, she reaches up to brush a lock of his hair behind his right ear. His eyes leave hers and trail down her arm, she watches them fall all the way down and sees his pupils dilate.

She knows what he’s seeing, knows the flush of her skin rosy in the firelight and the push of her breasts forward, the lengthening of her body with her arms up, can already feel the tightness of her nipples harden under his gaze. Standing on her tip toes, she pushes a kiss into the underside of his jaw. 

He rears his head back slightly, but doesn’t push her away and so she follows with another and another, along his jaw until she reaches his ear and whispers. 

“We would have gotten there, anyway. Please. She’ll make it harder on both of us if you don’t.” His hands land on her waist then, fingers closing around her sides, but it’s half holding her and half keeping her away. “You know she will. It’ll be easier just to do what she says.”

Just as his hands slide around her, warm fingertips pressing into the divots of her lower back, a chuckle sounds to the side of them. 

“The two of you are worse than virgins. What’s the matter, Huntsman? I thought you wanted our little deputy, here?”

His jaw clamps tight and she can see the sinews in his neck stretch as he clenches his teeth even tighter. The fingers on her back spasm and Emma thinks he might be close to breaking point, to doing something stupid like turning around and lashing out. 

“Don’t think about it. Just…” She whispers along his chin as she threads both her hands up into his dirty blonde curls, bringing his face back towards hers, kissing his face so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “… do this. For me.”

He’s resisting, but his breath is coming shallow and his arms are taut as if he’s holding himself back and she knows it won’t be much longer. 

“Does he, Emma? Do you think? Does he want you?” The crispness to her voice gives Regina away, makes Emma brace herself for the blow to fall. “Why don’t you reach down and tell me for sure?”

Even before she slides her hand down the front of his shirt, she knows what she’s going to find and she buries the top of her head into his sternum to spare him as her fingers slide over the front of his pants. Large and hot under the leather, he pulses against her hand. 

“Yes.” It comes out croaky, her voice too soft until she clears her throat. “Yes, he wants me.”

“Then get down on your knees and prove how much you want him, too.”

She feels the large intake of breath he gives, his chest rising under her forehead like a wave. Turning the side of her cheek into his chest, Emma looks to the side to see Regina sitting back on her throne, her right leg crossed over her left, her left elbow resting on the arm of the chair as her chin sat in her hand. Watching with a satisfied smirk. 

His hands leave her skin as she dips one knee, then the next, until she’s back on the floor. Her knees rest on a bear skin rug that has materialised and while it’s a feeling she’s had before, it’s the first time in her life that Emma wonders if it’s from an actual bear. She has no idea what animals actually exist in this land. 

But that’s immaterial now as her fingers scramble at the ties of Graham’s pants. She tries not to wonder if it would have happened this way, so many months ago, if they would have gotten happy drunk on beers in Storybrooke and stumbled back to his place, pushing each other against the wall and sucking faces until she fell to her knees. 

She has the very distinct impression that, no matter what way it may have happened, it would not have included Regina watching. 

Not that this stumbling block seems to dampen his lust, because Graham’s cock springs out of the leather eagerly. There is nothing left to do and no stalling tactics left, so she wraps her right hand around his shaft and gives a few firm warm up tugs. 

His groan says more than his denials had.

This is the last of her hesitation, his capitulation, and she leans forward and licks a long stripe from the base to the very tip, swivelling her head so she can do the same to the other side. She doesn’t know which is the bigger turn on, the groan above her or the bitten back gasp to her left. 

If it’s a show Regina wants, it’s a show she’ll get. 

Emma holds him at the base as she sucks wide open mouthed kisses all along his shaft, gentle and wet and succulent, slicking him up so she can slide easily. When she finally takes him in her mouth, he groans again, but it’s the crackle of energy to the side she’s listening for. Out of the corner of her vision she can see Regina narrowing her eyes and something gleeful spikes within her belly, momentarily. A small victory, but the only one she’ll get. 

She might be Regina’s pet, obedient and willing and docile, but Regina never gets her eager and active and tender. And they both know it. 

It hits her in the small of her back, a spark of heat that makes her give a short, strangled cry, more surprise than pain. 

“Put some energy into it, Huntsman.” Regina orders, voice hard. “Hurt her just a little bit, or I’ll hurt her a lot.”

The weight of his hands on the top of her head is a solid thing, fingers twisting in her hair, and he gives the smallest of squeezes to her scalp as an unspoken apology before his grip turns harder and his fingers pull sharply. 

He sets the pace and she braces herself with her hands gripping his hips, the air flaring out of her nostrils in hot bursts across his underbelly. And just when she feels she’s running out of breath, unable to time it exactly with his push and pull, Emma feels herself pushed back. 

She stumbles, initially trying to regain ground, but gives in when she looks up and sees his expression. It’s an easy fall back to the rug, coarse fibres scratching at her bare shoulder blades as he settles himself on top of her. 

There’s a shift, a disorienting motion that turns them both, and Emma reaches up to hold his bicep to steady herself. He’s muscular and breathless and his eyes are fully dilated, gasping as he stares at her. 

He’s strangely foreign, this weight on top her, resting between her thighs without moving. They stare for just a second and she thinks she understands exactly what he’s not saying, so her hand slides up from his arm over his shoulder and neck, fingers curling in behind his ear to bring him down for a full mouthed kiss. 

Hungry. 

This time there’s very little reluctance on his part anymore as he pushes in and Emma lets out a moan of agreement around his tongue at the welcome friction, the feeling of him as she stretches her. They must meet Regina’s approval, because there’s no punishment for the change of position. Her legs wrap themselves around his hips and it spurs him on, makes him thrust harder and faster until each of his moves are punctuated by a little grunt. 

She could almost forget the audience, she thinks, except that Regina is never one to be left out of any situation. 

“Emma?” The voice sounds like it comes from far away, behind her, even though she knows Regina is only a few feet away. “Look at me.”

Her back rasps deliciously against the rug, Graham’s large hands sliding lower to pin her hips down fiercely as he pistons in relentlessly and Emma’s gasps get louder, moaning her approval as she bends her neck backwards. Her chest rises up, spine bending, as the top of her skull lands on the floor and her face is upside down as her eyes swim for a second. Then she finds Regina. 

Black clad, cinched, crisp edged Regina in all her dark royal finery with her mouth open and tongue wetting the edge of her lips, her eyes drinking them both in. 

She feels Graham slide his hands down her hip, over the outside into the inside of her thighs before lifting them up, holding the undersides of her knees open and pressed close to her abdomen. This stretches her body into an unknown shape, spine and neck arched back as her entire body jerks roughly with his thrusts. 

“Please.” She gasps, begging, and she doesn’t even know who she’s begging any more, or what for. “Oh, god, please.”

Hawk eyed, Regina spots the impending crash. 

“Flip her over, Huntsman.” Her voice is raspy now, thick and scratched. “Take her from behind like one of your animals.”

Before he can even formulate a reply, be it agreement or denial, Emma raises her hand to push him up, push him off, squirming her body out from under him just enough to be able to turn herself, pleasure heavy limbs barely obeying her command. She lays there, on her belly, panting for a second before pushing up onto her hands and knees. 

In this position, Regina becomes clear and her eyes are focused solely on Emma. 

And the wide lust blown pupils, the flushed face, the lips split open and left there as if forgotten, the panting heaving breaths that push Regina’s chest up and down over the tight corset of her dress drives Emma that much further. 

It’s a cry of satisfaction when Graham grabs her hips a second later and slams back in. 

She can feel Graham, but it is Regina that she sees as her body is rocked forward again and again, dark brown eyes boring deep into hers, as she watches Regina’s breath stop, her top teeth biting into the flesh of her lower lip. 

Emma is teetering on the edge, balancing on the precipice and she is so close to falling over that her entire body is trembling. This time it’s pleasure grabbing hold and squeezing until she’s breathless, her cells flush and pumping, a far cry from the pain she’d felt chained to that bed. 

Without warning, Graham leans down and wraps his left arm around her middle, bringing her upright against him. Her right arm automatically lifts, hand grasping to find the back of his head to hold him closer at the same time as anchoring herself. His chest, hard plains and wiry hair, rubs against her spine, between her shoulder blades, and his knees spread hers wide. 

She is, they both are, spread open for Regina’s viewing, mere feet away

By the shaky thrusts that are fast losing rhythm, she knows he won’t last much longer. She gasps as his hand slides up her abdomen and closes around her breast. His fingers tweak at her nipple, pulling it forward and scissoring around it, plumping it up like an offering. 

“Please.” Her thighs flex and release, lifting her up and down again, muscles beginning to ache. “Please, My Queen.”

And Regina’s tongue traces the outline of her upper teeth. 

“Emma.” She finally relents like a gift, a predatory grin in place. “Come for me, my pet.”

Staring straight into Regina’s eyes, Emma does. 

It shudders out of her body, mouth opening to let out the pressure, as her limbs spasm and then let go in fluid waves of release. She rides out Graham’s last few thrusts until he lets her go and she falls forward, hands stretched out to catch herself. Her elbows shake, spastic in their inability to keep her upright and the only choice she has is to propel herself forward or land on her face. 

One hand in front of the other, she stumbles in the crawl until she can finally drop her head down on Regina’s lap, her left cheek nestling into the black skirt above a knee, her hands clinging limply to the slender shape of calves underneath. 

“Thank you.” Emma whispers, closing her eyes to feel of a hand stroking her hair. “For you, My Queen.”

The words _only for you, always for you_ float hazily in her brain, but she’s too blissed out to say them, content to drift among the feel of black satin stitching and the hypnotic petting. 

As a white hot spark hits her, Emma is thrown across the room suddenly and without warning, back slamming gracelessly against the leg of the table. Her breath is stolen and she struggles to inhale, panic surging as her eyes blindly skitter left to right until she can finally settle on Regina. 

“You! What did you do?!”

Regina has risen to her feet, any swirling dregs of tenderness obliterated as her face reddens in fury. 

All she can do is lean heavily on the table behind her back as her legs struggle to push her upright onto her feet. She’s still trying to catch her breath and her back feels horribly bruised. Every movement hurts. But it’s the purple crackling energy billowing around Regina that truly scares her. 

The world blurs, flutters for a second, and Emma finds herself alone in her chambers. Before she can react, she hears the definite sounds of locks slamming shut. She still runs to the door, knowing what she’s going to find, but unable to keep from doing it. 

She’s locked in and she can barely breathe. 

For the first time since she heard Henry’s theory about his book, even after she learned the truth and had undeniable proof, even after she knew intellectually…

Emma had come face to face with the woman capable of trying to kill her mother. 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this is a game, she's not sure who's winning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.   
> **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** Regina's little pet is trembling, mouth open and eyes pointed down to the floor.

****

General laughter and conversation fills the hall and Snow looks out over the crowd. 

Her childhood was never a lonely one. Her father was king, their court was always full and busy, yet this is an entire people and they fill every space imaginable. 

Except one. 

Charming sees her looking at the empty chair and his expression falls. 

“Should we be worried?”

She shakes her head, tries to dislodge whatever expression had worried him even further, and picks at her food instead. 

“She’s fine.” And perhaps she should be worried that she can lie so easily. “It’s only a few days past due, I’m sure she’ll be here.”

Four. It’s been four days and Snow wishes she could be as calm on the inside as she is on the outside. Emma should have been here four days ago and she hasn’t been seen. Snow sent her birds on a recon mission, but they returned with no news other than Emma hadn’t been seen outside the Queen’s castle. 

None of her animals are welcome inside the grounds of Regina’s castle and usually she’s grateful for that small mercy, but now she wishes for a spy, something and someone that could slip inside if for nothing else than to tell her Emma is okay. 

Given the treacherous lands between the castles, four days is really nothing to start a grand panic over. Anything might have caused the delay, there are many valid reasons to have delayed the departure, especially this time of year. But this is Regina and her daughter and she trusts Regina even less than she can throw her. 

A deal is a deal and Regina is bound to comply as much as Emma, if nothing else Snow knows that this ensures Emma’s return. Yet there are many ways for Regina to circumvent that clause in the contract. One week out of every month, that was the wording, which means very little. The dates are not set in stone and Regina could conceivably keep Emma until the very last days of the calendar month. 

Charming slants his eyes towards the ever watchful face of Henry and Snow softens her features even more. 

“Of course she’ll be here.” She scoffs, as if it’s even ridiculous to think otherwise. “She’s probably already on her way.”

Henry quirks his head at her and she knows he doesn’t believe her. 

“What do we do if she doesn’t come?” He asks, eyes wide and plaintive. “What if my mom really hurts her?”

Snow bites her lip and looks to Charming for help. She has no answers and she cannot lie, not to Henry. She’s basing all her confidence on the words of a known trickster. Rumplestiltskin doesn’t lie, true, but he twists the truth until it’s unrecognisable and she’s not sure if she’s willing to bet Emma’s life on it, not sure if she can lie to Henry’s face like that. 

Because nobody has any idea what to do if Regina goes back on her word. 

“It’ll be fine.” But she can’t stop her eyes scanning the windows and skies outside, the growing dark clouds, waiting for the message that is yet to come. “Regina hasn’t broken her deals, yet.”

She forgets to censor herself, that last word that gives her away. 

_Yet_. 

***

Emma has come to a decision. 

She thinks she might wear a groove into the stone of her chamber floor. After two weeks, she might be losing her mind. She hasn’t set foot outside this room and the ever constant track she is wearing across the floor is now so ingrained into her muscle memory she fell asleep one night and didn’t break stride, around and around and around, the same path without cessation.

There is nothing to do but walk, she had kept only one book in this room and she has read it twice now, her bed has never been made so stringently, the few things she is allowed to have never so clean and ordered. And this all before breakfast each day, leaving her with surplus energy to pace restlessly like a tiger in a cage. 

It’s how she finds herself climbing up and kneeling on top of the large wooden dresser doing what can only be described as _gnawing_ on the edge of the black cloth that drapes it. 

At first she waited in fear, lying as curled up on the bed as her bruised back allowed, dreading the appearance of Regina and whatever fury had driven her to throw Emma across the room. But the hours had turned to days and the days have now turned into weeks. Her parents, her family, must be worried, they must have noted her absence. 

Emma sees no one but the same timid serving girl that brings her meals on a tray three times a day, gathers laundry and takes away the chamber pot. She is still obviously under strict instructions not to acknowledge Emma herself in any way. 

Only once did Emma try and force the issue, but the intense look of fear on the girl’s face was enough for her to understand that the girl, all the staff, were in as much danger as Emma herself, probably more so. 

There is a monotony that threatens to break Emma even more than the continuous torture. Each day she wakes and waits and the only thing that happens is a nameless girl who brings her food. Even the food takes on a dull, tedium. She has noticed a distinct pattern with food, beginning with a day or two of fresh, roasted meats and vegetables, followed by cold meats and preserved food, ending with days of casserole. 

It is the same routine at both castles, only the cycle is longer here. She imagines the large number of people at the other castle lessen the amount of leftovers, creating a higher turnover for hunting. Today they are in the middle of it and she expects a plate of cold meats and breads for lunch in another hour or so. 

The absolute unchanging routine is melting her brain. 

There is nothing to do but think. And pace. And use her teeth to worry the cloth.

She has done something wrong, so intrinsically bad that Regina had to lock her up. Her brain keeps replaying that night over in her head, trying to flesh out one iota of anything she might have done to incur Regina’s rage. 

As much as Emma tries to recall, she is losing faith in her memory, unable to say for certain now if Regina’s expression was one of lust or hostility, if the soft hand she remembered had even been there at all. 

This leads to spirals of confusion, because Emma knows she didn’t do anything, all she did was follow orders. Regina had called the shots, she always did, and Emma had followed the instructions to the letter. 

Maybe that’s it, maybe she was supposed to fight harder, protest louder. 

Reason and logic, when she allows herself a rare moment to give into them, tells her that Regina had been pleased. Emma had earned her praise, as reluctant as Regina was to give it. She had done what was asked, she was a good girl.

She _was_. 

Regina will come back, Emma keeps telling herself this, she has to. A sickly thread keeps whispering in the back of her mind that, maybe, Emma has angered Regina to the point that she won’t return, that she’ll leave Emma alone in this room forever. 

Suddenly, her teeth break through and the cloth she has been biting at tears just a little. Emma’s heart freezes and she glances over her shoulder at the door. It would be highly unusual for anyone to enter her rooms at this point. 

Of course, it would be her luck for Regina to choose this day to finally unleash her next punishment. 

Her shoulders set and she worries the small tear, quickly and furiously, finally managing to get a hold. With one, large breath, Emma rends the cloth in two. It falls easily, opening like a curtain, and Emma’s eyes blink. 

It seems absurd to her, somewhere in the back of her mind she hears a voice telling her exactly how insane this is, but it has been overshadowed lately by fairy tales coming true and magic spells and dragons. 

She feels foolish, embarrassed, as if possibly this entire thing might be some elaborate mental state where she will eventually wake to find herself strapped to a bed in some forgotten mental ward. 

“Sydney.” It comes out like a whisper, inane, hopeful, just a little bit scared. She’s not sure whether she wants her theory to be true or not. “Sydney? Sydney!”

There is nothing in front of her except her own sallow reflection. Her face has tightened, shrunken more closely to the bone, and her eyes are shadowed deeply. And then her image ripples, flickers, and she nearly forgets to breathe as a familiar face swims into view. 

“Emma.” He’s different here, so much so she barely recognises him, all shadows and wispy smoke. “How did you know?”

And she thought whispering into a mirror was absurd. 

“Come on, Sydney.” She sits back on her heels, strangely comfortable atop the dresser talking to a piece of furniture. “Your name was Glass, you wrote for the Storybrooke Mirror. You were definitely in Regina’s pocket, she’s Snow White’s Wicked Stepmother and ever since I’ve been here she’s covered or draped every mirror whenever I’m in the room.”

He nods. 

“What can you do?” She can’t stop herself reaching out and touching the silver frame of the mirror, intrigue and interest and the sickly, disturbing push of hope. His eyebrows come together in a question and she elaborates. “My Queen hasn’t hidden you away for nothing. You have to have some power.”

“I doubt it’s to protect _me_.”

It’s said with enough of a bite she knows it’s supposed to be an insult, but he sounds no better than an eighth grade schoolgirl because some things don’t change from world to world, and Emma’s fingers squeeze. If Regina’s not protecting Sydney, she’s protecting Emma. 

She bites down on that train of thought and the warm feeling that comes with it. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

There’s something there, a flicker in his eyes, an amusement that tells her she needs to be careful. Here, as in Storybrooke, his allegiance is with Regina. 

“You’re not asking the right ones.”

Her head quirks. She has to be more specific with what she asks, what she says. She knows for a fact he’s not Rumplestiltskin, that job is more than adequately taken, but something niggles in her brain, care with words, as she mentally skims through all the fairy tales and cautionary fables that might apply. 

“The mirror has to speak the truth, right?”

His face gives nothing away. 

“As I see it, yes.”

Emma frowns. 

It certainly doesn’t fit with any tales she knows and now she wishes she’d paid more attention. There’s no princes that turn into mirrors. She knows one about a prince being turned into a frog, but that’s not going to help. The only thing her brain keeps throwing up at her is the possibility of a genie. 

“Can you do anything besides speak?”

The image flickers and for a brief second she sees herself reappear, but then he’s back and his expression tightens. 

“I can see what the mirror sees and I can show the same to Regina when she asks.”

Regina could use the mirrors of the castle to spy on her, Emma thinks, and probably has if there are any mirrors she hasn’t noticed. No wonder she had always been able to find Emma in the castle. 

“Can you pass messages from one to the other?”

A nerve flickers in his cheek.

“Mirrors can act as gateways.” It’s almost bragging and probably would be if it weren’t for the faintest hint of contempt she can feel. “I just connect them.”

An idea sparks in her then, bitter with its intensity. 

“Can you appear in any mirror?”

The corners of his crinkle in acknowledgement of her thought processes and he tips his face forward before answering. 

“Only those that have seen Her Majesty’s reflection.”

All the mirrors in the castle, Emma takes her time to think, but that’s not necessarily all the mirrors in total. His words are carefully chosen and she stops to consider carefully. 

“She’s been to Snow’s castle…”

His chuckle is too self-satisfied to leave her with any hope. 

“And Snow White knows it. The first thing she did when she got control of that castle back was to destroy and replace all the mirrors.” There’s something wistful in his tone then and she almost feels recognition in it. “Something she’s done after each of Her Majesty’s visits.”

He’s just as trapped and isolated as she is, but her empathy for him is negligible. True, he is answering all her questions, but she recognises them for what they are. Even in Storybrooke he was never on Emma’s side, always the fall guy for Regina. 

Emma asks her next question before she’s thought about it, surprising herself. 

“Can you show me where she is?”

Her mouth says the words before consulting her brain and she surprises herself with just how desperately she actually wants to know. She thinks he might say no, claim that he works for Regina more than he ever worked for her. 

But his image flickers and is replaced by a view of a room she has not been allowed to enter yet. 

Books are stacked high on shelves, largely ignored by the room’s sole inhabitant. Emma recognises her immediately, sitting at a table surrounded by open tomes. They’re large, seemingly voluminous, and Regina is poring over them, using one hand to trace the words across a page and the other to make notes on a paper in front of her. 

Even as she watches, Emma can see the way Regina reads a sentence then checks it in three other journals. Each of the books looks worn, but well-tended, as if loved by generations of a family.

It would be anti-climactic, she thinks, were it not for the intense look of dark concentration on her face, eyes and mouth contrasted in a dramatic shade as she heavily transcribes something and underscores it with her pen. 

She does not know what she expected, Regina meeting with a coven of witches, cackling wildly or capturing black cats to stroke at midnight. Anything to explain her complete disregard of Emma. 

More than ever, Emma thinks, Regina treats her like a pet. Now she’s done something against one of Regina’s arbitrary rules and Regina is ignoring her. Any longer and Emma might just sit at the door and howl until her mistress comes back to scratch behind her ears. 

Her hand reaches out and strokes the glass, _My Queen_ , and wishes it were over, this non-punishment that is somehow worse than anything else. 

_Abandonment_. 

She shakes it off and lets her hand drop. 

“Don’t think she’s loyal to any of us.” Sydney warns her as the mirror clouds over and he returns, part cruelty part concern. “She locked me in a mental ward. You’re no safer than me.”

***

Regina doesn’t waste time bothering to knock. 

She flings the door open wide and scans the room. From the corner, half hidden by the bed, a flash of color is her only warning before Emma launches herself over the mattress and skitters across the floor, landing red faced and breathless on her knees. 

Regina’s little pet is trembling, mouth open and eyes pointed down to the floor. 

“Get up.” She hisses, more than a little impatient with the act. “Stand up, Emma.”

A sob breaks out of Emma’s throat and Regina narrows her eyes. 

“No.” It comes out like a whimper, a little pleading moan. “Please, please My Queen, I’m sorry.”

If Emma thought she had been in pain before, she has many surprises in store. 

“I said stand up.” And Regina steps back, distancing herself. “We’re done here.”

The effect is immediate and great and real. Emma dissolves physically, a large breath in and then her body crumples on the exhale as her hands scramble around Regina’s calves, her face pressed desperately into the tight casing of her leggings. 

“No, no, please.” The sob is desperate. “My Queen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. I’ll do anything you ask. Please, My Queen, I’m sorry.”

Regina blinks. It’s not the reaction she was expecting. Something is wrong. 

Even as her eyes scan Emma more carefully, taking in the hunched form doubled over at her feet, the woman sits up again. Not looking up to meet her eyes, Emma’s hands come up and frantically begin scratching at the neck of her dress. 

It’s a plain woollen garment, nothing fancy, but the last time Regina saw it Emma had filled it out better than she does now. She sees the fatigue and stress and weight loss and Emma finally succeeds in tearing the knots open and begins tearing the cloth from her skin. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Shock slackens Emma’s jaw, fingers trembling on the dress half off her shoulders. Briefly, it seems as if Emma will look up and meet her eyes, question this change, protest it, something, but then she exhales again and it’s as if Regina said nothing. 

The dress is pulled completely off Emma’s shoulders, ripped away as if it’s distasteful, and Regina watches Emma’s hands as they push it down over her hips, careless of rending cloth. It’s very little effort to raise her hand and, with it, the dress slithers back up Emma’s torso, mends itself, retying the ribbons. 

Emma bites her lip, shaking in impotence and confusion. Even before the woman lifts her hands back to the ties, Regina is ready, undoing any progress that can be made. 

“What did he tell you, Emma?” The words sound calm coming out of her mouth, but they seem to jolt something in the woman kneeling at her feet. “What did Rumplestiltskin teach you last time you were there?”

The very thought of Emma conspiring with that twisted old goblin was enough to make Regina grind her teeth together. It serves her right, of course, to assume anything as banal as _loyalty_ in this situation. Whatever had led Emma to appear the perfect little pet had also allowed her to slide in undetected. Regina hates being found unprepared, hates having any weakness exploited. 

And Emma not only found a big one, she violated it. 

Giving up in frustration, Emma lets her hands drop, stops trying to disrobe. She does not stand or raise herself off her knees, nor does she look Regina in the face. 

“Nothing.” It comes out in a whisper, shocked and disbelieving. “We talked about nothing.”

With a curling of her finger, Regina drags Emma to her feet by magic, slides one long fingernail into the skin underneath her chin, forcing her face to meet hers, if not her eyes. 

“Did he teach you how to do that?” Emma slams her eyes shut as Regina says the words into her ear. “Did you ask him to show you how?”

The pressure of Emma’s jaw trying to force itself downwards is heavy and Regina’s lips snarl in frustration, spoiling for the fight. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A tear slides slick and painless down Emma’s right cheek. “Please, tell me what I did, I’m sorry. Let me show you how much.”

With this, Regina stands immobile as Emma’s body seems to melt, slackens, turning fluid as she presses against Regina. She feels lips on her mouth, on her chin, down her neck, breathy little touches. This isn’t sex, this is apology and capitulation and need. 

It takes very little effort to push Emma back, cast her away until she stumbles. Regina takes her in, this frail waif of a woman lost on her feet, unsure of what to do, seemingly unable to make up her own mind. 

The biggest lie of all. 

“You don’t know what happened?” Walking in a large arc, she circles her prey. “Tell me, Emma, what you think happened that night. What do you remember?”

There’s a whine of distress, a little choking sound. 

“I… I did what you asked, with Graham.” Emma pauses and Regina takes in the tense stance, the way the woman prepares for attack. She’s acting as if she thinks this will incur some punishment and Regina’s eyebrows scrunch together. “And then I came to you. I… I closed my eyes, there was a flash and then you threw me against the table.”

Emma’s lips tremble against an unconscious shudder, the curling of her spine, and Regina wonders just how hard her body had hit the table. Were she to run her fingers down the muscles there, she wonders if she would find any lingering tenderness. 

If this is all Emma can remember, if this is what she thinks happened, maybe Regina has been wrong. 

“A flash?” She questions, repeats, but she has to be sure, has to be completely certain that the woman does not distinguish between the two events. “And then I threw you?”

Another pause, she can practically see the wheels turning in Emma’s head, the churning of memory. 

“Yes, by magic.” 

As if it were that simple, as if it’s always that simple. Regina has spent all her life defined in one way or another by magic and by other people’s misuse or misunderstanding of it. Emma speaks of magic the way her mother does, blind, ignorant, all encompassing. It’s there because it is, mythical and all powerful, it can do everything and anything. As if magic weren’t a science to be learned and practiced, cause and effect, with its own rules and limits. 

“There was a flash.” Emma continues. “And then I was moving.”

She doesn’t know. 

That changes the game drastically. This isn’t an act. Regina pauses in front of her, eyes the way she trembles and won’t look up, won’t look her in the eye, waits for Regina to speak. Familiar as breathing, Regina flicks her wrist and Emma’s dress disappears, leaving her naked. 

A gasp lengthens and lowers into a moan of supplication as Emma drops down to her knees, her hands coming to rest behind her in the small of her back automatically. All the tension oozes out of her, that bustling gripping desperateness. 

“Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper. “Thank you, My Queen.”

This requires an experiment. 

Regina lowers herself down to one knee, taking hold of Emma’s right wrist. The hand unfurls in her own, supple with no resistance as she turns it over, palm upwards as she cradles it. The forefinger of her right hand traces light circles in the middle of Emma’s palm and she watches as the woman’s fingers twitch into it, as if it’s a caress. 

“Close your eyes.” Calm, soft, but definitely firm with no room left for any argument, Regina continues. “I want you to think of the thing you want most right now, any object you desire. Think of this and nothing more.”

There it is, a pocket of heat throbbing in the middle of Emma’s open palm. Regina can feel it, electrons swirling in the air, and this is magic, the harnessing of energy and nothing else. She supports Emma’s elbow in one hand and her fingers with the other, guiding the crackling force that pools. 

Regina feels the shift in air before the thunk of an object hitting flesh sounds. 

When she opens her eyes, it bubbles up as laughter out of her throat, delicious and heady and even slightly mean as she stands. Belatedly, Emma opens her eyes and looks at her hand, at the delicate leash that sits there. 

“Anything at all.” Regina purrs. “And that’s what you chose.”

Three weeks ago and Regina would have crowed with delight. Emma is hers, her pet by contract and now by choice, giving herself in ways Regina never would have thought possible. And yet, now there is something else. 

Regina may have thrown Emma away from her, but it was Emma that produced the spark, that white hot flash that burned. 

The question now is why. If she can figure out what made such a powerful latent energy erupt in that moment, and figure it out before Emma herself realises where the power is coming from, then Regina can control it. 

“Come here, My Pet.” This time her voice is softer, warmer, gentler than she has been yet and Emma sighs in pleasure, falling forward into Regina’s legs. “You had a hard time waiting, didn’t you?”

She clips the leash on and runs her hand through the limp, almost matted hair. That, at least, is easy enough to mend and a quick wave leaves Emma with a cleaner mass of tresses. The rest will take care of itself, the shadows and caverns and puffy, bruised bags, when Emma spends a week under her parents’ care. 

“And why is that?” Fingertips trail over Emma’s cheek as Regina leans down again. “Were you afraid I’d send you back?”

The relief and tranquillity that had relaxed Emma disappears in an instant, eyes snapping further open and more aware as the terminology hits too close to the bone. Regina feels her pull back slightly. Already aware of the onslaught to come. 

“Just like all those families that never really wanted little Emma?” Holding tight to the leash so Emma doesn’t pull back too far, she watches the reactions carefully. “Once or twice can be explained away, things happen, but every family one after the other. Pretty soon you begin to wonder if it’s you. If it’s not them, it has to be you, right? What was wrong with you that they kept sending you back?”

Emma shakes her head, eyes still pointed down. 

“You never found out why. That’s why you never stay with anyone, you reject them before they can reject you, save yourself a lot of pain.” Regina forces her chin upwards so she can look her in the eyes as she sneers. “Good old, fuck ‘em and run, Emma Swan.”

A flash of anger sparks way down deep, Regina sees it, and she prepares for the blast, but it doesn’t come. It has to come to the surface and she’s more than willing to get it there. 

“Problem with defence systems is that they’re not bullet proof. I bet you were too scared to trust a living soul and you were so lonely it hurt to wake up in the morning, all you wanted was a family. I bet you cried when you found out you were pregnant, didn’t you?”

She nearly flinches when a hand slaps down hard on her right wrist, the one holding the leash. Emma doesn’t pull her away or react any further, but Regina can still feel the warning thread underneath. There’s a tremor in the grip, firm but not tight. 

“All your dreams come true, finally, someone who couldn’t leave you.” Poking the bear is never a safe bet and Regina braces herself again. “Did you sing to your belly, Emma? Did you go shopping for cribs in your head? Knit booties? It wasn’t the prison that changed your mind, was it?”

Emma’s fingers squeeze around her arm, but she does not press further. Regina watches the corners of Emma’s eyes crinkle and her mouth turn downwards, top teeth sliding out to bite her bottom lip. 

“It was the day you found out he was a boy. You couldn’t do it, couldn’t do it to him. You never did find out what was so wrong, so broken with little Emma Swan and you could barely live in the same room with yourself, there was no way you could expose a little child to that, be so cruel as to ensure he couldn’t leave you, when obviously that’s all he would ever want to do.” 

She wonders exactly how much it will take, which dam will burst first. An unconscious display of power had to come from powerful emotion. And there is nothing subtle about the war raging in Emma’s eyes. 

“You didn’t give him away because you were in prison, you gave him away because you _were_ the prison.”

Regina gasps as Emma’s second hand finally joins the fray and nails scratch down her arm. The pain is clean and sharp and Regina pulls back instinctively as Emma pushes her. It’s the wrong reaction. It’s physical and real and strong, but it’s the wrong one. 

“So, you never let anyone get close ever again.” She doesn’t break her attack, even if she’s retreated, given Emma the space to regroup, chest heaving with deep breaths and resentment forming in her eyes. “That’s why you can pick up and move towns and not one person even misses you from your old life. I bet nobody has even noticed you left Boston, let alone that realm. You push everyone away, but the truth is you want them so badly it hurts, doesn’t it, Emma?”

Resentment, but not hate. 

“Stop.” Emma could so easily make it an order, but her voice cracks and wavers to the point of desperation. “Stop it.”

It’s a plea couched in anger. 

That’s not good enough. 

“That’s why you kept coming back, kept coming after everything I held dear, because you finally found the one thing you’d never found before… an adoptive mom who wouldn’t send the kid back. What, were you hoping I’d take you in like I took your kid?”

Regina wants the pure, uncaged, undiluted passion of truth. She needs Emma to forget everything that’s been drilled into her for the last two months. 

“Please, My Queen.” 

Absolutely the wrong answer. Regina needs to go for the kill. 

“It’s how I knew I had you before I even made the deal, why you were the perfect person. You were mine before you picked up your father’s sword.” She steps forward and grabs Emma’s face again, holds it still as she leans into the anger, almost wants the pain if Emma lashes out again, and whispers into her ear. “It was easy for you to make that choice, wasn’t it, Emma? Sure, it sounds nice to dress it up with nobility, you did it for Henry, for your mother, your people, but the truth is, you did it for you.” 

The muscles in her upper arm clench as she holds Emma’s face still, stops the shake of Emma’s denial. She won’t let Emma have that. Her voice drops down deeper, closer, intimate and seductive, pushing all the wrong buttons in the right way. 

“It was nothing new, was it? How many times had you thought about that before? Hm? How many times did you wonder if they’d keep little Emma Swan if only you’d let daddy in the bedroom door? Did you try it? Did you let your foster father touch you, Emma?” 

Emma jerks in her hold, hands coming up to truly scramble and scratch at Regina’s arms. A growl forms low and warning in Emma’s throat, rumbling up and out until it’s a scream. Regina lets go and feels two fists hit her chest before she knows what’s happening, she falls on her back and laughs, leaning up on her elbows to look at the feral expression facing her.

“That’s why you let me collar you.” It’s a taunt, the last cruelty. “Because it’s the only way you can be sure that there’s one person that can’t send you away.”

“Enough!”

Emma launches forward and lunges at Regina, catching her throat on the way down, landing with her knees straddling Regina on the ground. For a few seconds, Regina lets herself feel the pressure on her throat, the hot constriction of her lungs. 

It doesn’t take too long before tightness eases and oxygen returns, but even incapable of true harm, Emma is still furious and angry and careless of any consequence of this obvious insubordination. 

The culprit is obviously not anger. Regina will have to work on another theory. 

But that is work for another time. 

It’s easy enough to force her hands up between Emma’s arms, use her wrists to push them away. The purpose of Regina’s movements click something in her and Emma’s grasp goes limp. Regina smiles as she catches Emma’s wrists in her hands and thrusts her hips up, using the momentum to roll them both over. 

Until she’s pressing down, holding Emma’s wrists up above her head. 

“It’s never enough with you, Miss Swan.”

And Emma’s mouth opens easily for the kiss, her hips bucking up in response to Regina’s pressing down. She tastes like salt, like the tears running down her cheeks, and Regina rears her head back to better look Emma in the face, red eyed and bitter. 

It’s an easy shift, putting her weight on her hands as she manoeuvres her hips across, just enough to straddle one of Emma’s thighs, grind down to get the friction she needs. There’s a broken form of helplessness in Emma’s face that says she knows already that Regina will use her and leave her empty. Again and again, for perpetuity. 

When she leans forward again, nuzzles the heated reddened flesh of Emma’s cheeks, Emma closes her eyes with an exhalation. Regina can feel it in the body underneath her, all the anger draining away, replaced once again with her docile little pet. 

“What are you, Emma?” 

Emma’s eyes open once more, her lips breaking open to suck more air in as Regina grinds harder, her breath coming faster, waiting, needing to hear that capitulation. 

“Yours.” 

There’s no better incentive than that and Regina comes, soft and slow and weak, but enough. She smiles down, kisses Emma again, hard and strong and claiming as she releases the woman’s wrists to run a hand down her cheek. 

“Remember that.”

With a swirling burst of energy, Emma disappears and Regina drops the last few inches to the empty floor. 

***

The first thing Emma feels is soft wool and fur beneath her skin. 

She scrambles up, automatically assuming position on her knees as she scans the area. She’s on a bed, a warm fire crackling, and a body under the covers rolling over. 

“Charming? I thought you weren’t…” Emma feels the moment her mother sees her like a physical blow. “Emma!”

She’s been returned to Snow’s castle, right into her parent’s chambers. As Snow scrambles up and out of the bed, white nightgown billowing up around her, Emma slowly reaches down and pulls a fur up around her shoulders, distantly, almost like a second thought. 

“Are you okay?” Snow’s right there, in her face, and Emma can’t stop the hands that land in her hair and slide down her skin. “Oh, you’ve been crying.”

What she wants to say is that of course she’s okay, but it doesn’t come. She still feels gutted by Regina’s words, unsure of the reason behind them. Where Regina has been cruel and violent before, Emma has always seen some purpose, some end goal being worked towards. This time she just feels shattered, empty. 

Her mouth opens and shuts stupidly and she doesn’t even need to look to know the effect it will have, the reassurance it is definitely not offering. 

“Emma, what happened?” The concern multiplies a thousand times, Snow’s expression hardening as her hands find Emma’s neck. “Oh.”

She’s too late lifting her hand to stop Snow, her arm moving slow and clumsy as if it’s trapped in thick treacle. By the time she’s reached up, Snow has already unclipped the leash and pulled it away. As if the faster she can get it away from Emma’s skin the quicker she can erase it altogether. 

“Wait.” This time she moves faster, hand closing around her mother’s and taking it back, looping the chain around her fist softly. “I should keep it. I better not lose it.”

 _Or have it perish in the flames Snow obviously wants to throw it into._ Emma thinks. 

“Right.” Snow nods, blinking rapidly as she reaches up again to curl a wayward hair behind Emma’s ear, her touch soft and gentle and supportive. “Let me organise you some clothes before Charming retires for the night, okay?”

Emma wraps the fur more closely around her shoulders, fingers tightening in the edges. Snow makes her way to the door, summoning someone nearby and giving orders before returning. 

She wants to close her eyes and block everything out, her entire existence as she knows it. She wants to break down and cry, sob non-stop in her mother’s arms. She wants to fight something and fight hard. 

“I hate her.” She whispers, harsh and vile and strong, but it dies quickly and she almost doesn’t meet Snow’s eyes as she looks up. “But… I… I can’t… stop.”

Deep down, more horrific than anything, Emma just wants to sigh with relief that Regina hadn’t cast her away. 

“Oh, Emma.” And it’s horrible and awful and perfect when Snow wraps her in her arms and pulls her close, rests Emma’s head in her neck. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”

They’re empty words, they both know it, but Emma closes her eyes and lets herself be held. It’s strange and warm and soothing. The words are false, but the meaning in sincere and she feels the first stirrings of comfort. 

A knock on the door interrupts them and Snow leaps up. Before she knows what is happening, Snow has some of her clothes piled on the bed next to her, as well as a tray heaped with food. Her stomach grinds in on itself and her mouth waters. 

“Here.” Snow’s voice is soft and melodic and hypnotic as she lifts up a dress, pulling Emma’s arms up and slipping the material over. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Unbidden, unwanted, a memory unspools across Emma’s brain. When she was five years old, she’d had a worn, thin woollen sweater that had begun to unravel at the seam under her right arm. It was scratchy and left her skin itching until her fingernails left gouges in her neck and on her wrists, across her belly, wherever it touched her skin. She had hated it with a passion and fought whenever they’d tried to put in on her. Until one day she’d fought too hard and her foster mother at the time had wrenched her arm until her shoulder dislocated. 

She’d gotten a stay in hospital, a new sweater, several months back in the system, eventually a new family, and the lifelong lesson not to struggle too hard against those more powerful. 

Emma doubts Snow would have pulled that hard. 

Her limbs are pliable and loose and Snow frowns as she moves them at will, settling the dress down over her hips and legs, pulling the stays closed and tying the ribbons. When her non-existent modesty is protected, Snow settles a cloth over Emma’s knees, then hands her a bowl. 

Emma looks down at it, her eyes drifting over the steaming liquid, a glossy, shimmering green with endless tiny pools of grease on the surface. 

“Just broth.” Snow urges. “With chicken. You look like you could use something before we send you off to bed.”

It should flare up, that instinctual need to protest, to demand Snow stop being condescending, not treat her like such a child, but Emma just nods. She is hungry, she is tired, she agrees with Snow. And Regina was right, she wants a mother. 

“Yes.” Her voice is flat and she blinks, bringing the spoon up to her mouth automatically. “Of course.”

The liquid is hot and welcome, it washes over her tongue and down her throat, barely touching her insides and Emma can’t stop herself, can’t regulate the speed in which she follows it with another and another, until the bowl is empty and her stomach demands more. 

She grabs the thick slab of bread next. 

“We can save the reunions for tomorrow.” Snow suggests carefully, eyes watching every movement. “I think you should get a good nights’ sleep first.”

Emma agrees, of course, in fact she’s grateful for the suggestion, not knowing if she has the strength or the energy to deal with other people right now. 

She closes her eyes and hears Regina, hears the words and the accusations and the harsh, hard truths. Not all of it was true, but enough to crawl inside Emma’s brain and stay there, set up camp and begin digging. 

Week after week she has been subjected to her body being broken, yet it seems as if Regina has been taking notes on more than just the physical. She knows too much, aims too precisely and cruelly to be impartial. 

Something has changed, something about that night changed their dynamic, and suddenly Emma realises that Regina doesn’t know what it is, either. It wasn’t punishment that made Regina leave her alone so long, locked within her room, it was avoidance. 

And there is only one reason for Regina to avoid her.

“What did you do?” She asks, suddenly clear and focused. “What did you do to her to make her hate you so much?”

Snow’s eyes widen, head shaking a little. 

“It was so long ago…”

As if the length of time has anything to do with it, as if the years between the act and now mean anything when Regina has killed and ruined so many lives, when Emma continues to pay. Emma doesn’t need to say any of this, however, because she can see the resignation in Snow’s face, the final truth taking form. 

“I loved Regina.” She says, regret looming low and heavy. “Like a mother. She was my mother in many ways and that’s the problem.”

Emma thinks about the way Regina had come after Mary Margaret, about the pain she had inflicted on Snow White, about the vitriol that pours out whenever the woman speaks about Snow, and it does not fit with the way her mother is speaking now. 

It’s confusing, because nothing in the book tells this side of the story, but Emma waits and listens, because she needs to know. 

“She saved my life, she was really nice.” There’s a flicker of reticence in Snow’s expression and Emma knows instantly that Snow blames herself for whatever had changed. “I… I lost my mother a few years before. My father, the King, needed a new wife, but he turned down every option given to him, because he never thought they were good enough to me.”

This time, Snow does not meet her eyes and Emma understands. 

“But Regina was nice. To you.”

She doesn’t know enough about this world to assume, but knowing what she does about Earth history she can almost see the wheels turning. The political nightmare, the King making up his mind and some poor innocent woman left with no choice.

“She was so young.” It’s a whisper. “And beautiful and I couldn’t see past that, all I wanted was for her to be my new mother. I didn’t understand how she couldn’t want to marry my father, why she wouldn’t want to be Queen.”

Emma has changed her mind, she doesn’t want to know this, she shouldn’t know this. 

“Then I saw her with another man.” And as Snow talks, Emma can hear Rumplestiltskin in his cage, taunting Snow about Regina’s love. “She told me they loved each other and she sounded so happy. She made me promise not to tell anyone they were planning to run away, told me not to tell her mother.”

This stops her breath, holding on the inhale. It has become automatic, instinctual, to demonise Regina. In this form she has always been the Evil Queen, Emma has only ever heard of her that way, sprung from Henry’s book already fully dark, entrenched in her schemes and spells and killings. She has been either the manipulative mayor or the irredeemable witch. 

She has never been a person, a young girl with hopes and dreams and a life of her own, parents, a family. 

“But I was too young, Cora was a spiteful, manipulative woman who played me and I told her.” 

The way Snow says the words, Emma suspects there is more to the story. There is something looming there, something dark and dangerous in the way Snow hurries over the description of Regina’s mother in a whisper. 

“I… for a long time I didn’t know what happened; I was told only that Daniel had run away. It wasn’t until Regina poisoned me with the apple that I learned the truth, that Cora had killed him. Regina married my father not long after. I didn’t understand then, but looking back… she was forced into it.”

Emma can hear the distaste in Snow’s voice, the regret. 

“Arranged marriages are nothing new.” Snow shakes her head. “They happen all the time, especially with royal families. If I hadn’t been forced out of my life, I most likely would never have met your father and faced the same fate, some prince of some land. Most of the time they work out, some grow to love each other, some tolerate each other, but they make it work. I don’t think that’s what happened with Regina.”

She seems so sad, Snow, so mournful, that this time it is Emma that reaches out and covers the woman’s hand with her own. Snow’s fingers relax open and then tighten again, a caress against Emma’s skin. A silent thank you. 

“I didn’t see anything wrong, I thought they were happy, but… I don’t know. I was foolish, maybe I didn’t want to know.” 

It’s unreal, this sense of strangeness Emma gets at seeing her mother so lost and bereft. It’s a normal reaction, she assumes, for a daughter who has grown knowing her mother as strong, but Emma has not known Snow very long, barely even knew Mary Margaret, and really has no basis for comparison. It shouldn’t feel like such an aberration, but it does. 

“My whole life my mother was everything to my father, he praised her all the time and that didn’t stop after she died. To me, it was normal, so I didn’t think anything of it when he continued. But I can’t remember him ever saying nice things about Regina to anyone, not even to her. She wasn’t happy. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I believe… I think he was cruel. And I was no better. I didn’t give her one thought.”

Snow’s shaking her head, a physical manifestation of the need to deny this truth. 

“It’s so easy to see now, but then… I didn’t see how she’d changed from the kind woman to a cold, distant person. And none of us knew she studied the same black arts as her mother. She… she killed my father and then came after me.”

“What are you saying?” Emma can’t help but ask. “You suddenly don’t think she’s evil?”

And Snow speeds up the shake of her head. 

“Of course she’s evil. Look at what she’s done.” Her hand comes up and hovers in the air, flexing slightly, reaching for an answer that isn’t there. “I’m just… I think… maybe I know _how_ she got there. Maybe she felt it was her only way out.”

It’s stunning to Emma how much this woman can forgive, can empathise, with a woman who has done nothing but cause pain in her life, who was once a daily source of mortal fear. 

“I don’t know what to believe, but… the people at her castle now, her staff, they were my father’s people, my people, and they chose to stay with her. They’re loyal to her. After everything. Maybe they saw things I didn’t, maybe they blame me and my father too. Maybe Regina’s right to hate me for what I took from her.”

Emma looks her mother in the eyes. 

“You don’t honestly believe that. You were a child.”

As if that changes anything. As if reality ever absolves people just because they are too young. Guilt is a personal wardrobe choice and people wear it the only way they know how. 

“Maybe to start with.” Snow sighs. “But that changed soon enough.”

The tray in front of Emma slides away with a little pull and Snow stands up, busies herself by setting it on a nearby table. The conversation is clearly over and Emma stays seated, thinks about all the new information handed to her and how it fits in with her situation. 

Nothing has changed with Emma since that night and she doubts anything has changed with Regina herself, which means something has changed in the way Regina sees Emma. Locking her away, being so cruel at the end had nothing to do with punishment and everything to do with testing the waters, finding new limits where old ones had given way. 

Regina, Emma deduces, is almost frightened. 

Of her. 

***

Running a town is not unlike ruling a land. 

True, Regina is not Queen, she has no desire to be Queen, she never did, but her castle is the stronghold to a small, select group of loyalists. She would be remiss to allow them the freedom to change their minds and turn to lofty ideals of Snow and her friends. 

At least here she is not bound by arbitrary, binding rules of government and democracy. If she wants to raise taxes here, she doesn’t have to submit eight different forms and cut through several months of red tape, and the executioner is a much more effective law enforcement strategy than due process. 

But at the end of the day, the minutia of the details is the same and she might as well be back at her desk in Storybrooke, rubber stamping the same old forms month after month, year after year. 

There is very little to do, sitting alone in her castle, with nothing and no one to keep her company except the banalities of her station. She makes one last notation in the records, painstakingly kept for two years in the tight, cramped writing of her father’s hand. The only advisor she had trusted. 

She thinks about paying Maleficent a visit, needling that hornet’s nest for a while, but the thought just leaves her empty. Maybe she could play with Jefferson’s mind some more, but she has the distinct feeling she has burned that bridge for the time being and she cannot seem to come up with a plan devious enough to justify making that visit.

Her upper lip curls in distaste when she thinks he must be happy, making a new life with his daughter, snuffling for mushrooms in the forest like a wild boar. 

There’s always the option of going back to the prison in the mines, taunting Rumplestiltskin for the hell of it. But even Regina is not that foolhardy. He is ancient power, much older than her few years and the reason he hasn’t squashed her yet is either that she hasn’t gotten in his way as much as she originally thought or he was keeping her around to enact the curse he’d made. 

She still has little idea why he made it in the first place, what he was looking for. 

One good practice back in that realm was the obsessive paperwork. At least there she would have had some idea where to look for hints into a person’s past. She doubts very much there is any record of Rumplestiltskin’s life, let alone his history before he got his power. Even if there were, he would have obliterated any sign of the secret he has so far kept. 

It’s tantalising, that hint of a mystery, because if he has spent centuries allowing and barely giving glances to all the rumours of him stealing babies for spell casting, deflowering virgins aplenty, destroying lives, then the one truth he has worked to bury must be worth finding out. 

But even Regina knows that’s a useless undertaking. He won’t cooperate and nobody else alive is old enough to remember the ancient tales. 

No, Regina is left sitting alone with nothing to do. 

Except think about Emma. 

The fingers of her right hand clench into themselves on top of the table and she pushes the papers away in disgust. She is foolhardy and stupid and this plan is not working out the way she thought it would. 

It should have been easy tormenting Snow. Using her daughter as leverage. And the fact that the daughter happened to be Emma Swan, Regina Mills’ adversary, was nothing but cherry on the cake. 

Yet all it seems to have done is made Regina dependant on the instant gratification of having a ready and willing pet to satisfy her every demand. Somewhere along the line, she has lost her focus and now all she wants is to click her fingers and have Emma at her feet. 

As if she’s so desperate she can’t wait seven measly days. 

There are so many things she could be doing to Emma right now that her brain trips over each of them, hurrying to the next one, picturing each scenario, trying to coerce her into choosing just one. Saliva leaks out over her canines and she clamps her jaw shut, as much to halt that as to hold in the exhalation that is too close to a gasp for comfort. 

Regina swallows the last of her goblet of wine and stands, irritated with herself and bristling with the anxiousness of boredom. 

It takes little to no time to stride all the way down to the dungeon. She waves away the guards with little more than a flick of the wrist and opens the door, hoping that at least this little meeting will not let her down. 

“You bitch!”

Almost immediately she is rewarded and Regina smiles, amused, as she looks at the man chained to the wall. 

“Strong words, Huntsman.”

He glares at her. 

“You promised to let me go.”

Her eyebrows rise questioningly. 

“Did I?” Walking closer, Regina keeps one eye on his legs, ready to shackle them if he kicks out. “I remember promising not to take your heart. I believe it was you and Emma that assumed the rest.”

He deflates and she sighs. He always gave good arguments, but cracked too easily. All prelude, no show.

“You still have your heart, don’t you, Huntsman?” She traces a fingernail down his jaw which has fast gone from stubbly to grizzled. “All that means is you can feel what I do to you that much more. I think you both need to brush up on your deal making skills.”

His wrists are shackled to the wall, but his legs are free and he hasn’t made one effort to move them, even though she is standing within reach. 

“Why are you doing this to her?” He demands. “Just keep me and let her go.”

She laughs, cruelly. 

“You say that as if I still wanted you. Trust me, this isn’t Storybrooke anymore. Emma is a much more… attractive option, I’m sure you’ll agree.” It’s easy and familiar and old to grab his chin and force his face up to meet hers. “I’ve already broken you. Where’s the fun in that?”

He kicks, but not at her, raising one foot off the ground and slamming it back down again, his body jumping. 

“She doesn’t deserve this!”

Regina blinks. 

“Who does?” 

Then she shrugs it off and smiles again, teeth on edge, enjoying the spike it brings in his eyes. 

“But I have kept you for a reason, Huntsman. You like animals, don’t you? I want you to be my trainer.”

The sneer that comes to his face tells her that he’s fully aware of what she’s saying. 

“Sometimes my Pet needs a… different hand. And you will take it, when I deem it necessary. Do you understand? I expect you to take charge, discipline her accordingly, and keep her in line. This is your only option.”

“No.” He says it with confidence, a strange look in his situation. “You can’t hurt me any further that you already have. Keep me here, but you can’t hurt me. You made sure of that yourself when you made your deal with Emma. Her, for all the people in the land, you can’t hurt me.”

She taps the side of his face and lets him go, runs her hand through the hair on his head, finishing by petting him, like a good little puppy. 

“You’re right about the deal, I can’t touch any people from any kingdom in this land. But, I’ve already pointed out that you need to brush up on your deals.” Fisting her fingers in his hair, she holds him still as she bends down to bring her face to his, eyes to eyes. “You’ve spent years here declaring yourself one of the animals, better than humanity. You’ve decried society so long you, by your very own words, are not part of them. Congratulations, Huntsman. You got your wish.”

As if to underscore her point, he growls. 

“There, there. Be a good boy and you might get a treat.”

***

It’s a tiny whisper of air, a brush past her shoulder as Jiminy alights on the table in front of her. 

Snow looks up and eyes the open doorway, there is nobody there and, as far as she can tell, nobody in the hallway either. All sounds point to the large dining hall where the dinner is being served, merriment and laughter and conversation echoing off the stone. 

Everyone is happier on the days when Emma is here. 

Even Emma, Snow can tell, she watches hawk eyed as her daughter interacts with those around her. She’d slept easily enough after Snow had led her back to her room and stayed for part of the night keeping vigil, free from any interactions and the commotion her return would have brought. 

This morning was time enough for reunions and she smiles as she remembers the whoop of joy Henry had given when Emma had come down the stairs at breakfast, the people that had crowded around the table to greet and welcome her. 

Henry hasn’t left her side, speaking non-stop and leading her from room to room as if giving her a tour, as if she hasn’t already been here. He hovers over her, solicitous, and Emma smiles at him as she lets herself be led, slips her hand in his and indulges his every whim. 

“I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with this.” The little voice comes from the small megaphone designed for him. “I’m not qualified here…”

And Snow quirks her head, giving a reassuring smile. 

“Come on, Jiminy, you’re more than a conscience now. You have Archie’s memories as well as your own, you’re probably more qualified than the rest of us put together.”

He sighs. 

“I have spoken to her, told her that I would be talking to you, just so you know.”

And Snow nods, she would expect nothing less. 

“I’m not asking you to lie to anyone. I just… I need to know she’s going to be okay.”

Although, to be truthful, Snow is not sure that’s a possibility, not sure there is an okay after Emma’s breakdown, the little truths that reveal themselves no matter how much Emma tries to hide them. She is trying, trying very hard to stay strong for her daughter, but she has missed a lifetime’s worth of worry and it is catching up to her now. 

“It’s normal.” He says, but her face obviously betrays her immediate disbelief. “As normal as this situation would allow, at any rate. It’s obviously a highly charged situation. I believe Emma is reacting to it in the only way she can.”

She leans her head back, stretches the spine of her neck into little pops and gestures for him to continue. 

“She is physically, emotionally and magically unable to protect herself against Regina. Emma is literally dependent upon Regina’s approval for survival. This is classic Stockholm syndrome, she has to align herself with Regina or face death. The human body, especially the human brain, is hardwired for self-preservation. Emma is no different. In fact, I would say she is stronger than most.”

“But…” Snow stops herself. Of course he’s making sense, of course this is what is happening. He flaps his wings to urge her to continue. “But what if she could fight back?”

It’s a difficult question and she has wrestled with the decision to ask it, to further this theory beyond herself and the man who gave it to her. She hasn’t told Emma yet, doesn’t know if she wants to, because she’s not convinced it’s true and she’s sure that false hope would crush Emma right now. 

His hind legs chirp in thought. 

“That would change the landscape greatly, but I wouldn’t recommend encouraging any subterfuge at this point. You would either convince Emma that she can get herself out of this, possibly causing her to instigate a power struggle she is not ready to handle, the consequences of which would be catastrophic.”

He avoids using any harsh words, but they pound in Snow’s head anyway. Death. Horror. Irreversible trauma. Everything Regina excels at. 

“Or Emma’s current self-preservation might kick in and force a wedge between you, labelling you the enemy.”

And that is something unthinkable, Snow’s worst nightmare. 

“No.” She says it partly for him and partly for herself. “No, I won’t do that.”

“I think she’ll be okay.” Jiminy says, his voice calm and direct, matching his eye contact. “I expect she can come back from this.

Okay, but not fine, not well, not… happy. This is what hurts Snow the most. 

The feast is in full swing when she returns to the hall, smiling at the questioning glances of people as she walks by. Nodding easily at James when he looks over from playing a heated game of something with Henry that involves hands on the table and testing quick reflexes. They play it often and James insists it improves Henry’s performance on the training field. Snow doesn’t care, she just enjoys the way it improves Henry’s smiles. 

Her eyes are drawn to Emma, the energy in the room seemingly drawn to the solitary figure sitting upright and awkward in her chair as she nods in answer to a conversation happening further down the table. Snow frowns as she sees Emma’s empty plate. 

The frown deepens when she sees Emma glance down at it, then across the food laden table with a sigh before returning her attention back to Red and Granny. Her brain goes into overdrive. Emma had eaten just fine last night, at breakfast and at lunch. 

And then Snow bites down on her tongue as she takes her seat next to her daughter. 

Last night, when Snow had handed her an already filled tray. At breakfast and lunch, when Henry had doted on her and piled her plate high. She tries to forget the image of the leash attached to her daughter’s collar, the desperate way Emma had taken it back and clung to it. 

Without fanfare, quietly, Snow picks up Emma’s plate and fills it, setting it down in front of her. 

She turns without pausing to smile at Red and join the conversation, trying to pick up the threads of conversation, as if this is normal. As if watching strong, forceful Emma Swan unable to take assertive action on something so simple is an everyday event. 

The news that her bluebirds have still been unable to find any trace of Graham in the woods can wait for another time. 

***

“Come on, Emma!”

Henry plants his feet shoulder width apart and hefts the practice sword back into position. In front of him, Emma does the same, but her shoulders sag a little, despite how many times he’s told her to keep them up. He’s not used to being the more experienced sparring partner. It surprises him how easily she’s defeated. 

It does not surprise him that she refuses to quit. 

“They told me you killed a dragon!”

She grins a little and uses her left shoulder to brush hair and sweat out of her eyes. 

“By throwing a real sword through its twenty foot chest. You wanna stand still and I’ll aim carefully?”

It’s a reflex, grinning back, but it doesn’t last long. He’s not an idiot, she’s lost weight and he can see how tired and worn down and weak she is. How her arms shake as she tries to steady the sword. If it were anyone else, he would go in for the kill and disarm her. He has learned that much at least in the months he has been here. 

Instead, he tilts his sword until its dulled point falls with a thud to the ground. 

Surrender. 

“I guess you don’t get much chance to practice, huh?”

Her face falls and she covers by widening her eyes. 

“No.” She says softly, “No, I don’t.”

“Henry?” He perks up as he looks to the left, seeing his grandfather nearby. “Try archery. A bow and arrow takes less effort.”

Of course. He takes the sword out of her hand, noting the relief that washes through her, then puts them away. She’s easy to lead, he’s noticed, she doesn’t argue, just follows when he takes her hand and pulls her along. 

They walk along the path together, stepping in tandem, and it’s almost like they’re back in Storybrooke and she’s walking him to the school bus. 

“Sorry, Henry.” A hand comes up and runs through his hair. Had it been anyone else, he would shake them off instantly, but he doesn’t. Not with her. “I know you wanted to…”

Her words die off and he should tell her it’s fine, that’s he’s okay, but the words don’t come. He can’t stop sneaking looks at her, watching the jumpy way she moves and how easily she flags. His brain goes through a montage of possibilities, what her life is like, the torments she endures. 

The kids speak to him more now, in between classes and training, and he has more friends here than he ever did back in Storybrooke. 

But that’s kind of the problem, the things they say. 

“Emma.” He blurts it out, knowing before he speaks that he shouldn’t, he should keep his mouth shut. “Do you…? You know…?”

Her hand runs through his hair and down the back of his neck, coming to rest between his shoulders. 

“What?”

Henry breathes in and out quickly, not meeting her eyes. 

“You’re kind of the new Graham, right? I know he didn’t patrol anyone else’s house by climbing out the window in the middle of the night.”

It takes him a second to realise she’s not next to him and he looks back to see that she’s stopped walking. Her eyes are pointed as they look at him, the exact same expression she uses when trying to solve a puzzle. 

“How did you know about…?”

Henry rolls his eyes. 

“I’m ten, not two.” He chews on his bottom lip and then continues. “So… do you like girls?”

It’s a standoff, Emma with her shocked expression and gaping mouth and Henry with his determination. He figures it’s now or never to get the answers no one else seems to have. 

“It’s… complicated.” She tries, but then she sees the dismissal in his face, the frustration of such a stock answer. “Not always. I’ve dated guys before. It’s not like I have a lot of choice in the matter… and… really? Really, kid? You want to have this conversation? With your own mother?”

The toe of his boot kicks divots in the wet packed earth. 

“No, I guess not.” He pretty much has the confirmation he needs anyway. It’s not like he was asking for details or for her to draw a diagram. “It’s just…”

The fear that flashes over her face at whatever question she thinks he might ask is comical. 

“I mean, she stole Graham’s heart. He was like her prisoner, too.” The sky is white when he looks up, clouded and overcast. “Why can’t she just go on dates like normal people?”

Emma laughs then, a machine gun burst of surprise and nerves and amusement. It’s full and deep and she reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder, pulling him to her as they continue walking. He has little choice but to join in, laughing with her as his arm nestles into her hip. 

“That’s a good question, Henry.”

***

Emma paces the well-worn path of her chamber floor. 

She hates this, can’t stand this back and forth, living seven days of freedom only to be snatched back into this surreal world of power and Regina and her own strangely growing need. When she is away, when she’s at the other palace, she manages to put it aside as if it’s some hazy dream. 

Yet the minute she comes back, it all come crashing down on her and her first instinct is to seek out Regina, kneel at her feet and beg for scraps of attention.

The yearning for the thick, sweaty, earthy populated smell of the summer castle eats at her. Of course she wants to be back there, sitting at her seat at the high table, laughing with Red or Ella or Snow, teasing Henry, free to do and say and be whoever she wants to be. 

But she is not there, a dark carriage having appeared without notice merely an hour before. It came without warning, Snow’s bluebirds unprepared, and Emma was not surprised when the carriage had left sight of her parents’ castle, only to be transported directly here. 

She was more surprised at the driver. 

Helmeted like all of Regina’s guards, he had only spoken once to give Emma ten minutes to prepare to leave, but it had been enough. Enough for the betrayal and anger and hurt to surge through her. She should learn never to trust Regina, 

At that thought, as if summoned by the imagining of her own name, Regina enters the room. 

All of Emma’s anxiety melts and she sighs as she falls to her knees, coming to rest at Regina’s feet. She doesn’t look down, though, takes her time to look up and notice the expression on her Queen’s face. 

Relief and something close to pleasure. 

A thrill, a tiny little spark of pride dances along Emma’s spine. She sighs out loud, an audible present for Regina as fingers slide through her hair, behind her ear and down to cup her chin. Her hands rise, palms upwards as she offers the leash. 

“Emma, My Emma.” Regina purrs, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “My little Pet.”

She is watching, taking in every movement, and this is familiar and lulling and peaceful, the way Regina leans down to latch the leash around her collar, brings her lips in close to whisper something in her ear, possibly an order, some little cruelty designed to flay her raw. 

But Emma acts faster, reaching out to grab Regina’s wrist mid flick. The fabric of her dress flutters as Regina gasps, surprised, the familiar spell halted. Her dress settles against her body once more, nearly whole, with only a tear across her left shoulder and the stays at the back loosened. 

“No magic.” It comes out too harsh, too firm, and Emma automatically reels it in, softens her voice. “Please, My Queen, no more magic.”

She waits, unblinking, half expecting the reaction to be severe, bracing her body for some form pain, whether she’s thrown across the room or electrified or hung up and whipped. The fingers of Regina’s hand, still clenched in Emma’s own, curl into a fist and Regina’s tongue comes out to lick at her top teeth in speculative amusement. 

“As you wish.” 

Emma’s heart beats in double time. 

“Well, then, My Pet.” Regina continues, curling her free hand into the leash and pulling Emma up to her feet so that they stand eye to eye. “It seems as if you’re giving the orders tonight.”

The words sound strange, foreign to Emma’s ears, the meaning behind them incomprehensible as she struggles to stay apace with this new game. 

“I… I don’t…” Because Regina is obviously waiting for a response, a reaction, something, and all Emma can do is stutter in near panic. “I don’t… know…”

And Regina makes a cooing sound, running her free hand down the side of Emma’s face, alerting her to the fact she is still holding Regina’s wrist in hers, a pulse beating rapid against the inside of her palm. 

“It’s simple, my dear.” Leaning forward, Regina places her cheek next to Emma’s, hot skin against hers as she feels the whoosh of breath in her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Emma’s brain blanks out as Regina pulls back. 

“You know.” It’s all she can whisper, her mouth sticking on the words, on the idea. “Whatever you want, I want what you want.”

A click of disappointment, frustration sounds from somewhere in Regina’s throat. 

“Yes, I realise that, I have observed some things in the last few months. I’m not asking what you like, I’m asking what you’d _prefer_.”

There is nothing left to do, Emma is groundless, unsure, lost in this new level of whatever game Regina is playing. She has broken her down, abused her, and the last time Emma was here, Regina had flayed her open with words. 

Obviously this is another ploy and whatever Regina wants, she gets in one way or another, so Emma might as well give in. 

She lets Regina’s wrist go, only to bring her own hands forward and fist them in the front of Regina’s dress. The woman barely has time to react before Emma drags her forward, brings their faces close and smashes their lips together. 

Immediately she feels Regina grab her shoulders and try to take control, but Emma doesn’t release her hold on Regina’s dress, doesn’t give up the advantage surprise had given her, control over Regina’s mouth. 

After a minute, maybe two, the mood changes and she feels Regina sigh as the battle ends. Emma inhales, a thousand molecules of Regina’s breath sliding into her mouth, as she continues her exploration, tongue sliding against Regina’s. 

Flattening her palms over the front of Regina’s chest, she slides them up over her shoulders, under the black material of the dress until she can push it down, stretching the material against the ties that hold it closed. 

It takes less effort for Regina to push open the already undone stays of Emma’s dress. She feels the cloth slide over her skin, catching on her hips before falling to the ground. They break, both gasping for air as Emma struggles to untie the fastenings of Regina’s dress. 

“You fool.” Murmurs Regina in a breathy soft voice. “You pretty little fool.”

And then Emma feels Regina’s mouth seal over her neck, sucking lightly on her tendon, and she shivers in response, finally managing to strip the woman of her clothes, freeing her hands to grab Regina’s hips and spin her, propelling her backwards towards the bed. 

Regina goes down easily and Emma climbs up over her. 

“Is this what you want?” Regina taunts as Emma pushes her down, straddles her hips, grabs her hands and holds them to the side of her face. “To be on top? To be in control?”

Emma shakes her head as she leans down, claiming Regina’s mouth in another kiss, strong and hard and beautiful. 

“No.” She gasps it, breathing hard as she comes up for air. “No control.”

Then she spins them both, falling down and letting Regina slide up on top between her legs. 

If this is a game, she’s not sure who’s winning as Regina’s eyes widen and her face crumbles slightly from cold hearted to something just a little bit warmer. Understanding and confusion and trepidation war over her features. 

Emma reaches up and cups the side of Regina’s breast, sliding her thumb around to flick the nipple into a peak. 

“Can you do that?” Her voice sounds confident, but Emma’s mouth is dry. “Can you be equal?”

Regina’s top lip curls up in a sneer. 

“Never.”

But it’s more for show than anything else, Emma feels it in the way the woman bows her back, bends down to kiss along her throat and jaw, slides her hands down Emma’s hips. Emma bucks up, her legs already wrapped around Regina’s thighs. 

Her hands continue to explore, cupping and weighing and stroking Regina’s breasts, as Regina dips lower, mouths a wet streak down the line of her sternum. It’s startlingly easy to transcribe everything she’s learned, every inch of the body on top of her, as Regina’s subservient little pet into something else. 

Something given as Regina makes her gasp out loud, closing her mouth over Emma’s left nipple. She crawls her feet higher, from the backs of Regina’s thighs up to her hips, widens herself, stretches in yearning. 

“A little eager?”

But the tease is nothing, forgotten, as Emma feels a tongue spike hard into her belly button, Regina continuing her path downwards, her abdomen and chest sliding against the inside of Emma’s thighs. 

“Yes.” It’s a moan, an admission that means nothing, because Emma would say anything at this point. “Yes.”

She had said no magic, practically demanded it and yet she can’t be sure if Regina is playing by the rules when she feels tongue and teeth and lips between her legs, on her, in her. There’s something there as Emma’s hands fist in the furs underneath her. 

“I missed you.” Her words are mumbled, incoherent, a blur, she cannot stop them. “I hate you, but I missed you, I wanted this.”

Her body twists to the feel of Regina’s fingers coming to join her mouth, one, two, pushing up and stroking inside Emma, along shuddering, grasping walls, until Emma cries out, coming hard. Her hips fall to the bed as she shudders, riding out the waves of bliss. 

“And so we’re both damned.”

Emma almost misses Regina’s words. Almost. She allows herself a beat to recover and then pushes up, scrambles until she has enough leverage to turn them again, push Regina back to the covers. The woman is pliable underneath her, as eager as she is. 

And Emma grins as she leans down, sliding her tongue over Regina’s lips, inside her mouth, tasting musky girl come in the crevasses, pushing one knee between Regina’s and lifting it high and then higher, until her kneecap presses against Regina’s wetness. 

They rock together and Emma gives no quarter, stroking her hands down the sleek, sweating body, kissing Regina’s mouth and jaw and neck, sucking sounds out of her throat, thrilling to the little whimpers that come. 

Her Queen, writhing helpless underneath her, for her. 

“Did you forget?” Regina gasps, mouth open, chest heaving. “Emma?”

In response, Emma slides her right hand down, between Regina and her knee, slides one finger up, then two, rests her thumb on Regina’s clit and uses the friction of her own knee to move them. Rocks hard and deep as Regina pushes back. 

“No.” Emma’s whole body pulses, arches, strains towards the woman underneath her. “I’m always yours.”

Regina comes with a cry, warm and thick and pearly over her fingers, and Emma slumps downwards, careless for the moment as she rests her head in Regina’s neck. Her limbs wrap around the body underneath her and she stays still, waits for the inevitable push, the cold hard voice and retaliation, stealing all the comfort she can in the time she has left. 

Her eyes blink, drift shut and she could sleep if she was allowed. 

“Emma.” It takes her a second to respond, blinking wearily. “Emma, My Pet.”

The singsong tone of superiority gives her good enough reason to lift her head and Emma blinks in the sudden light that assaults her eyes. 

“I thought you weren’t going to use magic?”

And Regina laughs underneath her, voice gleefully mean. 

“Me?”

This time she looks around more carefully, eyes the candles that have suddenly flickered to life around the room. Their flames blink, red bodies twisting in delight, tiny thin tendrils of smoke curling upwards from each of them, and then Emma feels it. That swirling pulsing pull in her belly. 

Emma has done this. 

***


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regina is going to strip Emma naked, not the other way around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.   
> **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** I like... breasts.

***

_Snow leans over the edge of the large, ornate cot and looks down._

_She knows this is foolish, that to play make believe is a child’s pastime and surely she is beyond those things now. Yet she cannot help but imagine breathing air into the small, lifeless lungs of the form that lies there. Cannot stop imagining a small, squirming bundle snuggled into her arms and the quiet snuffling breath that would follow._

_“Snow.” She turns at the voice, almost an unwelcome intrusion. “Aren’t you too old to be playing with dolls?”_

_Her eyes drink in the woman in front of her, the beautiful cream coloured gown with ornate trim and wonderfully soft smile. Even if the smile doesn’t quite reach the sharp eyes._

_“Not playing, Regina.” She admonishes, educating the unknowledgeable with long practiced patience. “Practicing. I’m going to be a mother one day, I’m going to have lots of babies.”_

_Regina clasps her hands in front of her abdomen, breathing in tight._

_“Yes, well. I’m sure you will.”_

_Unfazed, Snow lets her hand trail over the edge of the cot before she turns fully, happy now to have the full attention of her erstwhile stepmother. It’s such a rare occasion; she doesn’t pause to look too closely at the wrinkles at the edge of Regina’s mood. Any other time and Regina would have excused herself and found something else, something Queenly, to do._

_This room is slightly dusty, unused, Snow’s old nursery, still full of abandoned toys and child treasures. Waiting, held in stasis for a future heir._

_“Regina?” Snow breathes, not wasting a moment of this stolen time. “Don’t you want babies, too?”_

_There’s a ripple that trips fast across the older woman’s face, but that’s the only weakness that shows before she recovers, before Snow is even sure it’s there. A hard smile, all teeth, forms her answer._

_“And why would I want that? I have you.” The face is soft and the smile is wide, but the eyes are dark. “Who could ask for more? When you’re such a… dear.”_

_The last word drips from Regina’s tongue and Snow’s forehead crinkles in confusion, unsure of her footing. Sometimes Regina makes her tummy rumble, a sickly feeling that threads its way into her heart, but then the moment passes and she shakes it off._

_This is Regina, beautiful and lovely and her new mother, who saved her from the horse._

_“When I’m married, will it hurt?” One thing people have never accused Snow of being is short of words. “Is that why you cry?”_

_She is scared, truly. Snow knows that she will be married young, to whichever suitor her father deems appropriate. This is the way things are done. She thinks that her father will choose well and will no doubt let her do most of the choosing to begin with, but she is still the King’s daughter._

_Her only experience with marriage has been to observe her father and Regina. She did not take much notice when her mother was alive. True, Snow remembers her mother being very happy and much in love, but it is also true that she never told Snow how sick she was until the very end, never let her see how much it pained her._

_Her hands tremble and she clenches them into fists inside the skirt of her dress as Regina’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in suspicion, before that calm fake expression takes hold again._

_“I doubt very much marriage will hurt you at all, Princess Snow.”_

_Her forehead crinkles as she frowns, an expression her father tuts at and tells her that her face will stay that way if the wind changes, but generally Snow cannot help it if her mind works too fast. Regina reaches out and trails one long, blood red nail down the side of her face, cups her chin._

_“And what has bought this melancholy, hmm?”_

_Something tells her not to answer, that the truth here is not welcome. Regina is nice to Snow now, polite and sometimes encouraging, but it is nothing like the warmth that emanated from her on that hill. Regina will not welcome the news that Snow courts her, watches in secret, and sometimes comes across scenes she is sure she is not supposed to see._

_“Hazel and Lilly.” She admits, instead. “They were talking about… things.”_

_A frown appears as a tiny wrinkle in the middle of Regina’s forehead._

_“The cooks’ daughters? Speaking to you about matters of marriage? Something must be done.”_

_“No!” Her feet jump forward before her brain catches up, stepping that much closer. “Please, it was nothing! They’re my friends, Regina, please.”_

_She knows the three words that come next, that have always come, that separate her from the children of her father’s realm._

_“It’s not proper, Snow.”_

_If Regina takes this to her father, tells him they have been speaking such things to her, then Snow will probably never see them again, let alone be included in their games. Such as they are. Hazel and Lilly are older than her, but indulgent enough to admit her in their talks._

_“That’s why I asked you.” Her eyes are wide and the lashes blink delicately, Snow is not above idle flattery. “I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”_

_Regina’s mouth tightens, but her shoulders drop the slightest little bit. All the subtle indications of Queen, Regina fills the role more than adequately, not too withdrawn and not too loud or brash, she is graceful and keeps her emotions close to her chest._

_Her father may have chosen Regina for her motherly instincts, rather than any political or thoroughbred training, but nobody outside the castle knows it._

_“Yes, well.” Regina brushes the compliment aside. “Maybe you should tell them to censor their talk around someone of your delicate age.”_

_Success makes her bold and Snow forgets herself, giving in to her natural instinct for tactile comfort and pleasure and contact, throwing her arms around Regina’s waist and burying her head in under her ribs, snuggling into the warmth and squeezing hard._

_“Careful.” Comes the warning, but it’s already too late and Regina’s carefully structured demeanour buckles as she flinches, scrabbling Snow away from her with a gasp. “Let me go.”_

_The frown doesn’t bother hiding at all this time and Snow’s face crumples into worry._

_“Are you okay?”_

_“Yes.”_

_It’s a snap, curt and hurried and unlike the Regina Snow has gotten to know. It’s belied almost instantly by the way Regina clutches her middle and bends slightly, a flicker of something crossing her face, settling in her features._

_She looks up at Snow._

_“Get Elsbeth, get her now.”_

_“The crone?” Her head quirks. “Why would you need…?”_

_But there’s a quiet form of urgency that makes Snow move without waiting for an answer. Her shoulder brushes Regina as the woman steps forward the few remaining paces until she can lean against the wood of the cot, gripping it tightly._

_Snow is not prepared for the hand that reaches out, closing around her wrist and pulling her back, pinching just shy of pain. Her eyes catch the flicker of red on Regina’s skirts._

_“And don’t tell anyone this time.” Regina sneers it between clenched teeth. “Can you manage that?”_

_Denial makes her shake her head, slowly and stupidly._

_“I’d never.” Snow gasps, mortified. “I wouldn’t speak about a lady’s time.”_

_Shock and disbelief makes Regina’s face slack and Snow thinks she’s about to say something, something that obviously shouldn’t be said if the hard, unfriendly look in Regina’s eyes is anything to go by._

_“Go.”_

_It’s not until she’s two floors down, far away from the sudden and harsh hostility, that Snow even realises the blood she saw was too high, too red, too symmetrical to be an accident._

***

Folding her hands up behind the nape of her neck, she reaches her elbows up over her head and outwards, stretching her spine in one, long breath. Her body releases with a sigh, dropping her further into the sheets and oxygen rushes to her nerve endings. 

Regina smiles as she spreads her arms out, fingers splaying in the empty, cavernous bed. 

There is something to be said for a restful night’s sleep. 

She edges her feet out of the covers and sits up, stretching her toes out to the chilled stone floor, relishing the contrast that wakes her up. Her left hand smooths out the sheet and her body follows it, twisting her spine to lean across until she can see over the edge. 

Ah, yes.

Still asleep, Emma lies curled into a mess of furs at the foot of Regina’s bed, skin gleaming in the morning light, naked except for the collar around her neck and the chain fastened around her ankle. The other end wrapped around the post of the bed. 

Simple, steadfast, loyal little Emma, Regina licks her teeth, so clueless and unaware of her own basic needs. She must be tired after the gruelling week Regina has put her through. Some extra sleep will do her the world of good. 

Then, of course, she will be refreshed enough to endure even more than before. 

When Emma first stood in the middle of her garden path, Regina had written her off, obviously too early and without thought. It wasn’t until the infuriating woman had cut the limb of her apple tree that Regina had really paid attention. 

What was obvious then, painfully, addictively, brutally so was that Emma Swan did not back down from a fight. She had spent too long powerless in her childhood and refused to back down later in life. It was the passion that lit her up, the striving, the need to do and be good. Righteousness as deeply embedded in her as her parents. 

This was Regina’s mistake. Taking the obvious for granted, believing she was a natural fighter. That the way to win against Emma was to bring that out in her, push and push and push until she rose up and fought to the death. 

She has spent months here, more effort than she cares thinking about, pushing for that fight, trying to find the one thing that would cause her to lose that tightly held control. 

And yet, the answer was right in front of Regina’s face. 

All this time. 

She had just been too focused on her goal to really see it. 

Emma is her own worst enemy, her past and her defences, she wraps them around herself like armour, pushing everyone out and letting no one in. Afraid to get hurt, to be abandoned, rejected. It’s painful, really, in its stark simplicity. 

The magic in Emma cannot be released until all her defences are stripped away. And all Regina has been doing is mixing the cement that Emma paved those walls with. Every little threat, every little devious scheme, every spell that wrought screams from Emma’s throat was another chink in the plan. 

Of course it has taken this long for Emma to let go, to truly put aside the self-protection, Regina has been doing her very best to destroy her. 

Then again, perhaps the drastic approach has worked far better than she could have imagined. It is Regina that Emma has chosen, that she now belongs to and, it appears, it is Regina’s control that makes her give up her own. 

Emma had sworn that Regina would never break her, had declared that she would never submit even if she obeyed, and yet that is exactly what has happened. 

And, Regina thinks as she looks down at the slumbering form chained to the foot of her bed, it is a beautiful thing. 

A knock disturbs her reverie and Regina scowls as she draws a robe around herself and bids her guard enter. She has instilled a great obedience to her rule of avoiding unnecessary conversation and she merely holds out her hand, waiting to accept the parcel he has obviously brought her. 

It must be urgent to disturb her in her chambers, her guards know the price for overstating trivialities. 

She notes with interest the way the man pauses, hesitates, and tries very hard not to look at the naked woman sleeping two feet behind her. 

“They came by the gate.” Comes the deep, husky voice. “Bluebirds have been dropping them every hour on the hour since last night.”

This sparks Regina’s interest as she looks at all the tiny little scrolls in the box, delicate enough to attach to a bird leg. She picks one up between the nails of the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, twisting it to note Charming’s seal. 

At the very least, she should be grateful Snow doesn’t use Leopold’s insignia. 

Then there would be cause for war. 

A soft moan hums behind her, shuffling in the furs, the sounds of waking, and Regina turns to watch Emma blink her eyes open and immediately look towards her. Emma slides easily free of the furs and kneels up, expression blank, but her eyes warm. 

Regina smiles a welcome at her and doesn’t look away as she speaks. 

“Are you enjoying the view, guard?”

Immediately Emma falters, mouth opening and skin turning red as she reaches down and grabs a cover before she can stop herself, bringing it up to hold in front of her chest. The fur folds into itself, making a game of peek-a-boo with the rest of Emma’s body. It covers very little and Regina enjoys taking her time, sliding her eyes down the curve of breasts and hips and thighs. 

“Well?” She says, finally turning away. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes.” The answer comes resolute and unhesitatingly, her guard looking her straight in the eye and nowhere else as he nods. “It’s a fine view, Your Majesty.”

The paper unfurls in her hands as she stretches it out, noting the glide of the smooth vellum paper. There was nothing this fine, she’s sure of it, in all of Storybrooke’s stationary collection. Her eyebrows knit together as she reads the fine cursive writing, irritation flickering sharp and fast. 

“There’s something defective in your bloodline, I’m sure of it.” She murmurs, too soft to be heard before she shakes it off and looks up at the guard again, her fist crumpling the scroll. “Well, we can just consider this your Christmas bonus, then, can’t we? Be gone, I’ll reply when I’m good and ready.”

He backs away, eyes wide, the knowledge on his face that a sneering joke is never good news dripping from Regina’s lips. 

When they are alone, Regina sets the box aside on the bed and tilts her head to examine Emma on her knees, still clutching that fur to her chest and watching her with hooded eyes cloudy with betrayal. 

“Why did you hide yourself? Hm?” She steps closer and reaches out to wrap her fingers around Emma’s fists. “Do you not think yourself beautiful? He certainly did. Are you ashamed of your body?”

There is no resistance at all when Regina unfurls Emma’s fingers, dropping the fur back down to the ground, and then spreads Emma’s arms out to the side, opening the midline of her body to Regina. She has become entirely too comfortable. 

“It’s… it’s private.” 

The words stumble out of Emma’s mouth, clumsy and untrue, but Regina will accept the meaning behind them. 

“It’s mine, is what it is.” She says it simply. “If I wanted you covered, I would have done it myself.”

With a flick of the wrist, the chain around Emma’s ankle disappears and Regina circles her, watching the play of muscle and bone and sinew as Emma holds herself upright. The muscles of her calves strain as Emma flexes her toes against the floor, her spine bunching as her backside twitches. 

“Tell me, dear, what will it be today?” Regina watches Emma strain her neck, twisting only this much in order to see her. “Pain? Pleasure? Power plays?”

What should be an easy question is anything but. Emma knows enough to understand that Regina is adept at making pain pleasurable and equally so at making pleasure excruciatingly painful. The next few hours, as far as she knows, depend on her answer and how well she can decipher Regina’s mood. 

The course of Emma’s mind is written clearly on her face. 

“I’m yours.” The answer comes, small and placating. “Whatever pleases you.”

At least she knows how to pay attention to the conversation. 

“Well, that’s good.” Regina leans down, slides her hand over Emma’s shoulders and down her chest, traps Emma’s nipple between her fingers as she breathes in her ear. “Because it pleases me to have clean floors. I want you to scrub this chamber until it gleams.”

The little hum in the back of Emma’s throat turns to a squeak as she pulls away, out of Regina’s grip, and disbelief clouds her face. 

“What…?”

Regina straightens her back and gestures towards the bucket and scrubbing brush she’d summoned. 

“Clean. The floor.” With that, she gathers her robe around her and turns to dress. “You have an hour and, Emma, I better be impressed when I come back.”

She walks away, leaving behind a stuttering, inwardly outraged Emma. The woman has become entirely too comfortable playing to Regina’s desires, learning to garner satisfaction where Regina would give none. 

It won’t hurt to be shaken up every now and again. 

Now Regina has to deal with the mess that is Snow’s message. 

***

Emma kicks a tree. 

Frost covers the ground and she's fairly sure her toes are turning blue, if not purple and swollen inside the rough hide boots she wears. If she really had any magic at all within her, she would go back to Storybrooke, nurse Regina's apple tree back to life and transport it here. 

Just so she can kick that instead. 

“Scrubbing floors!” She complains. “Like I’m some sort of scullery maid!”

Graham only laughs at her, pitiless and unbending. 

"And you think you're better than that?" He queries as he walks into the nearby barn without looking back, assuming she will follow. "Don't you give yourself willingly every day?"

For good measure, Emma kicks the tree again. But she follows, cupping her fingers together and breathing on them, the skin red and swollen from being immersed in water for so long. 

"Oh, I see." He grins back at her. "Too good for domestic work, but just good enough for the depraved sexual deviancy?"

If it was anyone else standing there, Emma would hit him, she's sure of it. But it is Graham and if there's anyone else so uniquely appropriate to comment on her situation, she hasn't met them yet. Several months and a different realm, it was Graham playing Regina's dogbody. He knows better than anybody what she is capable of. 

"What are we doing here, anyway?" 

She looks around at the several stalls and the horses that stand inside, staring back at her silently. It makes her shiver just a little. Most of them are tall and muscled, sleek and black, with only the horse she rode familiar to her, smaller and a deep brown. The air here smells different, hay and beast and dung, but alive. 

In answer, Graham brandishes her leash over his left arm, like a waiter offering wine. 

"Time for your daily exercise, My Pet."

Emma rolls her eyes. 

"That's entirely too literal. I don't think this is what she had in mind."

Not that she cares. Her entire time at this place has been indoors, her only experience with outdoors has been at her mother's castle. She’s glad for this break, for the excuse to leave the sterile stone walls and cement floors, her brain screaming for colours other than black and grey. 

"Well, I could tie you to the rack again." He offers with a twinkle in his eye. "But who can be bothered?"

Laughter bubbles out of her throat, the joy of shared truancy, both of them doing something they know they shouldn't. It feels good to have a friend here, someone who actually talks to her, who doesn't hide from the reality that is her life. It's inane, their joviality, given the seriousness of their situation, the fact that Regina could make either of them pay dearly in a very real and painful way. 

"All we need now." She says as she leans back against the wall, relishing in the freedom of being able to move the way she wants. "Is some cigarettes and a set of bleachers and we'll be right back in high school."

His face drops then, from the light mood he’d had since he’d taken her leash from Regina’s very hand and led her out the door to a sombre, brooding glower. 

“Don’t.” She points at him. “Don’t you dare apologise.”

That’s the last thing she can take right now. She thinks, perhaps, if he goes through with it that it will probably be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, the very last thing to shred her sanity. He merely shakes his head and raises his hands with a shrug of his shoulders. 

She’s not sure if it’s supposed to show that he wasn’t intending to say sorry or that he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“I don’t know what’s happening.” Emma leans her head back against the wood. “But I sure as hell know it’s not your fault. If this is what she wants, it’s not like we have any choice.”

The same old line. 

“Come on.” She insists, bringing her head back up to look at him, a human face between two longer equine ones. “What else could you have done? You have about as much choice as I do, which is none.”

Something familiar flickers over his face, something that tugs at the back of her mind and she struggles to remember, tries to think where she’s seen it before. Then it hits her, standing on the street outside the bar as she confronted him about his affair with Regina. 

Shame. 

“I had a choice.” It comes harsh and gravelly, gritted out of clenched teeth. “Then and now, I’m doing it for me. You, you’re doing it for everyone.”

Emma can feel the middle of her forehead crumple in confusion. He looks up to meet her eyes. 

“If Regina had threatened to take only your life, would you have agreed? Would you be bending and scraping and bowing before her?” He gets his answer in her expression. “No, you’d be fighting back, spitting in her face and scratching until the very last.”

She wants to say no, but it’s true. She never would have agreed to this if Regina’s only threat was against her. But the reality is far different, the reality is that Regina held all the cards, not only Emma’s life, but those of her son, her parents, an entire town of people she’d known as friends. 

“It’s not that simple.” But he won’t listen to her, she knows it before she even speaks. “Graham…”

The look he flashes her is harsh and sudden and she knows what he’s going to say before he does. 

“That’s not my name.” He doesn’t pause to let her argue. “I’m not the guy you knew, Emma.”

She was wrong, this is the straw, and frustration bubbles out of her, harsh and strong and hot. 

“Bullshit!” She pushes herself off the wall, throwing her hands down and out. “I get it! You aren’t Graham and Snow isn’t my friend and Red isn’t a waitress at some diner. You can all keep telling me that until the cows come home, but it’s not true!”

Her shoulders heave with the force of her breath, this need to get the words out. 

“Mary Margaret was just as caring and thoughtful as Snow ever was. Regina was just as much a manipulative bitch there as here. Red, Granny, Archie, there’s very little difference. Memories mean nothing, you are who you were, don’t you get it?”

Not that she expects him to, she barely gets it herself. Her words are running too fast for her brain to catch up and all she wanted, all she expects he wanted when they came out here was to escape the ever present malice that lives next to Regina. 

“Forget it.” Emma gives in, her energy falling away as quickly as it had risen as she reaches forward and slides her leash from his hands. “Let’s just play by the rules and not talk.”

He doesn’t let her get far away as she turns, grabbing her elbow and spinning her back.

“She’s not done with you.” There’s something wrong with the way he says it, too eager, too vicious. “You know that, right? She’s not done with either of us.”

Her eyes close and she takes a breath before opening them again and meeting his eyes. 

“And how does that matter? I’ve survived this far and she’s won, hasn’t she?” Her right hand gestures down her dress, at the strange rises and curves that used to be her body. “You said it yourself. I’ve given in, given up, no hope for me now.”

Even in her own mind it’s no longer hers, nothing more than some strange abstract form to drive around until Regina tells her what to do and how, what to feel and when. 

His eyes flash and it’s stunning to Emma that this, out of everything, is what makes him angry. 

“Because she lives for the game.” It’s practically a hiss. “And if you give up now, she’ll find a new one. Something, anything, just for the thrill of it.”

There is no tree next to her this time and Emma ends up rearing back and kicking his shin, making him grimace, until the sudden flash of hot lava that sears her blood begins to abate. If it were at all applicable, she would be seeing red, as it is she barely sees the man in front of her. 

“What?!” It claws out of her throat as she looks at him. “What do you want me to do? What can I possibly do? Tell me, please, because I have no idea. You want me to say no? She’ll take your heart. Want me to fight? She’ll kill my mother. Try to hurt her back? She won’t kill me, no, she’ll lock me up again and torture me until I’m begging her to end it.”

His touch is unwelcome and she scrambles to push him away, fighting him like she can nowhere and no one else, scratching at his very skin. 

“Emma.” He’s stronger than her and it takes little effort on his part to capture her wrists and hold her back against the stall wall. “You know what’s next, don’t you?”

She shakes her head, refusing to look at him, at his understanding eyes and the bitterness that wells up in her because of it. 

“If you stop fighting this, she’s won again. She wanted to hurt you and she got it. She wanted to break you down and she got it. She wanted your submission and she got it.”

Emma shakes her head even harder, because she’s following all too well. 

“What’s the one thing that will hurt your mother even more? Emma? What will hurt Snow White the most?”

Her eyes squeeze shut, as if blocking out the sight of him will do the same to his words. 

“She’s lonely, Emma, she’s always been lonely. You think she wants a pet forever?” When she begins to struggle, he only tightens his grip, makes her gasp until her eyes fly open and he’s staring at her. “She wants to take whatever’s in you that’s good. She’s going to make you. Just. Like. Her.”

“No, never.” Emma finally finds her voice, cracked and stuttering, but there. “Let me go.”

He doesn’t react, not even to blink. 

“You won’t even notice when she starts.” His voice doesn’t stop, that horrid tone, too deep and too cruel. “She’ll make it a game, start with me. Give you _my_ leash and push you to your worst, again and again. What harm will that do? We’re equals, right? I did it to you.”

Emma jerks her hands again, really tries to free herself, but it’s useless and panic begins to eddy and swirl in her belly as she looks around them, trying to find something or, damn her, _someone_ to stop this. 

“But it won’t stop there.” His hands tighten again, eliciting a whimper from her. “She’ll push you until it’s barely even a choice anymore, until you don’t even think about your actions, until you think she’s in the right and you’re as dark as she is. Snow White’s daughter, turned evil, the Dark Princess.”

“No!”

With that, Emma finds her strength, dragging her knee up until it collides in a heavy dull thunk with his groin, making him let go and stumble backwards. She wastes no time in pushing him further, pushing him down, until he’s hunched in the dirt. 

His voice and his words are too cruel. They’re not his, she realizes. 

“Did you forget something?” Emma practically spits at him. “Did you leave anything out? Or did you say everything she told you to? God she’s good.”

It hurts, stings just a little, just minutes before they were joking and she was grateful for it, thankful for a friend, a reprieve in all of the madness. It just makes it hurt that much more. 

“We’re not equals.” She tells him. “I do what she says, but I would never hurt someone else at her say so, not even you, not like this. Not by being so hurtful.”

“What?” He groans, rolling over. “It’s okay to fuck your body, but not your mind?”

“You were right.” She looks down at him, a mixture of anger and pity and even understanding. “You’re not Graham. You’re nowhere near the man I knew.”

***

Snow paces the small, wooden stable. 

It seems like she’s been waiting here for hours, but logically her brain tells her that it has been nowhere near that long. She has no idea whether or not Regina even got her messages, let alone read them. Her fingers twist inside each other, skin and knuckles pulling until she’s sure she’s going to break the surface.

“Really, Dear?” Well, that drawl certainly confirms it. “A parlay? You realise that there’s no war, right?”

She spins around, all too ready and still not prepared to see Regina standing in the doorway, too amused to do anything but inspire hatred. 

“Of course there’s a war.” Snow parries. “You know better than I.”

Regina smiles as she examines the nails of her right hand. 

“Well, there’s no fighting at least. Didn’t you get that memo? I’m sure you did: your daughter for some peace?” A flash of teeth. “She’s certainly doing _her_ part.”

Snow bites down hard. 

“We’ve been through this, Regina.” Her voice is dull, but firm. She refuses to give in to high emotion. “Just tell me what it will take. I’ll do it. Another apple? Another curse? You finally want to kill me? Just... tell me. It’s yours.”

The spike of Regina’s left eyebrow is the only reaction, the only sign of interest given. 

“Well, aren’t you just feeling the martyrdom this morning?”

To say that she’s calm would be a lie, though all the signs point to it, her breathing is calm and steady, her eyes don’t falter, her voice remains stable and as far as she can tell she isn’t even shaking. But that is the last thing Snow feels. 

“Regina, please.” It takes a great strength to keep her voice from breaking. “You don’t want Emma. You’ve never wanted Emma. It’s gone far enough.”

In front of her, Regina has the gall to clasp her hands together in a show of delighted surprise, grandly false and overstated. 

“Oh, this is just scrumptious!” She cries, softly and joyfully, like Snow has just shown her a newborn puppy. “I was wondering how long it would take until you made it all about you, again. Snow White, serial innocent and victim extraordinaire.”

With that, she spins on her heels and begins to walk. But it’s not an exit as much as it is a power play and Snow knows she is expected to follow, to chase, to keep up. This is familiar, it’s expected, especially here and especially now. 

The banal wood of the barn, long abandoned and empty, once a warm and full place, gives way to bright green hills and sunlight. Snow blinks as she keeps pace a mere step behind Regina. 

Always the queen. 

“Time to face facts, My Dear, this isn’t about you anymore.” And even though the words are spoken over her shoulder, Snow knows that Regina is aiming each of them to her with pointed force. “No, my attentions have turned to a somewhat more lucrative project.” 

Her knees feel the incline before she registers the hill and Snow scans the grassy rise until she sees the stone in the distance. They won’t get there, Regina won’t take them there today, but she’s not above getting them just close enough. 

If she closes her eyes, she can still feel the wild, erratic thud of her pulse as she clung to the horse, that screaming white hot panic as they surged across the plain. 

“He was right.” Snow breathes in realization. “Rumplestiltskin said… he said you’d be drawn to her power.”

When Regina spins around, hands brushing the black width of her skirt behind, her gaze is pointed and narrow. 

“He spoke of it?”

Fear clutches at Snow when she sees it, that spark of excitement in Regina, something brighter than the dull sheen she manufactures for public viewing. It makes her desperate, makes her lose some of the tightly held control she’d promised herself not to. 

“Regina, please.” It’s only a few steps until she reaches her, hands out and wrists bared, vulnerable to the last. “Me. You want to punish someone, punish me. I won’t fight. I promise, whatever you want.”

She’s too close, she knows it the moment Regina lays her fingers on the base of her throat, five cool digits pressing ever so lightly against the pulse there. Snow is thrown back with a jolt, breath knocked out of her as she lands backwards on the grass, hands spread out behind her to catch the fall. 

“I don’t want you.” Regina says, looking almost surprised at the magic still sparking at her fingertips. “I thought that was clear. Why go for the kill when I can go for the pain?”

Not the magic, Snow thinks, the lack of consequence. 

Regina is just as bound as Emma to the contract. She cannot hurt any of them and it seems she was expecting some reaction to having thrown Snow away. But Snow isn’t hurt and now she knows Regina never meant to hurt her. 

Regina knows many spells harsher and darker than pushing a person down. 

“The last time we were here.” The words finally come, when she has caught enough of her breath. “I asked you if taking my father was enough.”

Dark eyes flash a warning. 

“And I told you it would never be enough.”

Snow pushes on the ground for leverage, fingers digging deep into the moist blades of grass as she folds her legs in under herself and finds her balance, standing slowly. 

“No.” It’s a sad sort of admission. “I see that now. What I did to you… what you lost… was more than just Daniel.”

The warning is harsher now, Regina’s face pinching in preparation for a clear defensive strike. 

Snow notes with interest the right hand Regina clutches to her abdomen, covering it with her left to hide the shake there. 

“My mistake cost you a loved one.” She continues. “But it was also your only chance at happiness. It was your future. Your freedom. All the plans you’d made with him.”

Looking up at the sky, as far away from Snow as she can, Regina breathes in. 

“I suppose you have a point?”

And Snow nods. 

“So I ask again: are we equal now?” Before Regina can interrupt, she continues. “You took my father and with him, my role as his daughter. You tried to take my true love. You stole my future, my happiness.”

Her throat catches and Snow pauses to swallow. 

“You stole my daughter.” It hurts. “And more, you stole my _motherhood._ ”

But Regina has no pity, she can see it, can plot the path of anger that spreads across the woman’s face. 

“And what did it cost you?” She challenges. “You have your Charming! You have your castle and your people and your youth and everyone still adores you! Your happiness is assured, Snow.”

All she can do is shake her head. 

“Not like this.”

“Well.” Regina’s lip curls as she takes a calming breath. “I’m sure Emma just _chokes_ on your ingratitude.”

The question sits in the back of Snow’s brain, squat and ugly and unaskable, just as it always has. The deep burning need to ask when, at what point did Regina turn from justifiably angry to black hearted? Had there ever been a time where Snow could have halted the progress if she’d taken notice?

“When will it be enough?” She asks instead. “How far does this have to go? What do you want out of all of this?”

“Poor little Snow.” Regina shakes her head in pseudo sympathy. “You always were a little slow on the uptake. I’m already getting what I want.”

It makes Snow sad, all over again, drains her of the anger that was coursing through her only moments ago. It’s a heavy, thick, encompassing feeling, unwelcome. 

“No, you’re not.” Her words come easy as breathing. “You have no idea what you want, you never have. You’re just reaching, grabbing out at the closest thing, whatever you think will cause the most damage. But you’re not happy and it’s not what you want.”

A cloud, dark and tumultuous, rolls in over Regina’s expression. 

“You think so, do you?”

Snow steps closer, untying the travel cloak and letting it fall, baring her open neck. 

“If you want to hurt me, Regina, do it. Kill me now.” When Regina makes no move, Snow nods. “You can’t do it. You don’t want to kill me, you never have.”

Regina lifts her chin higher. 

“Did you forget the Huntsman I sent to cut out your heart?”

Snow’s head tilts, just a little. 

“You had a hundred trained assassins, more, at your disposal, and you sent me out with a forest dwelling novice who cries when he has to kill a stag. Why was that?”

This time when Snow steps forward, Regina steps back. 

“Why didn’t you kill me yourself? You rip out people’s hearts without blinking, you could have done it while sneering in my face. And then what happened? You couldn’t even kill me with a curse, that apple wasn’t poisoned, it made me sleepy. You knew I would have taken it, even if it meant death. But you couldn’t do it.”

“Be careful.” Regina hisses. “Unless you’re so sure of your theory you want to test it.”

“The only way you could hurt me was by not hurting me.” The more words she gets out, the more come crowding out of her throat, all pushing and shoving their way to the front. “You banished all of us to a new world and you still did nothing.”

There is an emotion crossing Regina’s face, rippling over it that Snow has never seen before. Judging by her lack of ability to counter it, to hide, Snow is willing to guess that Regina has never felt it before. 

“You had no problem ripping out the heart of your only friend and framing me for her murder. How easy would it have been to kill me instead? No one would have known, no one would have seen through it. I would have died alone, without my husband, without my daughter. And you would have won.”

Regina throws her arm out, not aiming, just a gesture of frustration, the powerlessness of a cornered animal. 

“That’s not winning.” She hisses. “I wanted you to suffer.”

Snow does aim, reaching out and doing the unthinkable. Pushing Regina back with a none too gentle shove. Her child-self gasps at this sacrilege, daring to touch her step mother, Regina, the Queen, the untouchable. 

“Then hurt me! Leave my daughter alone and come after me!”

Surprise and shock dance momentarily on Regina’s face, then leave completely to make way for stubborn defiance. 

“You have dark magic powerful enough to obliterate armies without even blinking.” Snow doesn’t fold. “You could have tortured me for decades easily. You still could, if you wanted, you could find a dozen loopholes in your contract and make me suffer for your very own pleasure. And you don’t.”

It’s a laugh, light and airy, that trills out of Regina, but even Snow can see the falseness of it.

“Oh, I’m getting plenty of pleasure, don’t worry yourself about _that_ , My Dear.”

For a second, just a second, Snow lets the anger wash over her, but then she pushes it back. 

“You lied to me.” Snow’s most damning truth. “When I was younger, you lied to me about Daniel. To protect me. You were nice to me, in your own way. Regina, you loved me. I know you did. You still do. And you’re angry, I get that, but you have to let it go.”

This time the laughter is real, amused and surprised. It trails off into the curling of a lip, Regina glaring at her with flashing, angry eyes. 

“You were always so needy, Snow, so greedy for love. You hide behind this sickly, sweet mask to make others love you, to make everyone love you. It’s sickening.”

Snow only smiles. 

“And you hide behind evil. But you’re not evil.” She’s expecting the flash this time, when it comes, making her stumble backwards. “You’re nothing but a scared child, yelling at monsters in the dark to make them think you’re not afraid.”

She doesn’t pause before reclaiming those steps, coming back to Regina, not giving up the ground. 

“You’ve always been scared.” Magic hits her again, the same as before, pushing her back, but there is no cessation this time, it comes again and again and Snow loses footing, falling backwards. “It used to work, but it’s not going to last, Regina. How long are people going to be afraid of you when you don’t even leave your castle?” 

It doesn’t hurt, but it leaves her winded and just a little bit afraid. She’s reached the point where Regina could lose control, try to hurt her contract or not. 

“The big bad witch, too scared to face anyone but the woman she has to threaten to spend time with her?”

Standing above her, Regina is monstrous. She’s always been tall, always been bigger, more times than not she’s been threatening. But like this, Snow wonders if she’s played the wrong hand, if Regina really might kill her. 

“I never cared for you, either of you.” Regina hisses the words, pushed past the point of pretence. “The snivelling little brat and her bastard father.”

“No.” The end of magic leaves no reprieve as Snow is hit with words instead. “My father was a good man!”

She does not have time to stand. 

“To you!” Regina screams it, more unbalanced than Snow has ever seen her and so she stays on the ground. “To you and to your poor dead mother, the perfect wife. Was he a good man to the frightened girl whose hand he forced against her will? Was he a good man when he took everything else against her will? And then punished her for it? Was he?”

Snow shakes her head, she can’t hear this. 

“Yes, I killed him.” Regina seethes. “He deserved it. And you deserve to be punished, so does your daughter and everyone else tainted by his blood.”

Dizzy, scared, panic overriding the common sense she thought would save her, Snow gasps as she crawls backwards crablike on her hands. 

“Even Henry?”

This stops Regina cold. 

The anger drains out of her, as suddenly and as completely as if Snow had pulled a plug. 

“If you value your life, Snow.” The cool, collected façade is back. “If you value that of your Charming, your daughter, anyone you hold dear, don’t ever pull this trick again. Take great care never to come face to face with me again.”

Purple smoke swirls around the woman standing above her, twining around Snow’s ankles and flicking at her calves. She knows that she has lost, that her objective has failed, that Regina is leaving. 

Alone again, Snow drops her head onto the wet grass and cries. 

***

Regina feels the ground under her feet before anything else. 

The air swirls around her for a second, but she knows what she’s going to see before it settles. Her chamber, familiar and grand and regal and hers; the only place in this godforsaken prison that has always been hers. 

She seeks out Emma, eager to see the destruction surely left behind, the distraction she needs. 

But even that is denied her as Emma is kneeling casually and calmly at the foot of Regina’s bed, unfettered and still clothed, but unquestionably docile. Regina’s eyes narrow as she scans her pet, the way Emma’s eyes rise fearlessly and with pause to meet hers, the rise of her shoulders as she inhales. 

“You bewitched Graham?”

And Regina snorts as she strides forward, movement hiding the tremor of her limbs. 

“Of course I did. Do you honestly think I believe that fool would top you if I wasn’t there to supervise?” Her brain betrays her, Snow’s face valiantly trying to swim to the surface, and so she sneers in response. “He cries over killing a deer. He’s a huntsman that can’t even hunt properly.”

Her nerve endings are shot and she’s buzzed, ready for a fight, eager for one, jittery in the wake of it. But the taste in her mouth says otherwise and her eyes slide in a different way over the soft expanse of skin visible above the modest neckline of Emma’s dress. The very slightest hint of cleavage. 

Regina bites the edge of her tongue as she grips Emma’s upper arm, pinching the muscle tight as she drags her upwards onto her feet momentarily before pushing her back onto the bed. 

Emma doesn’t fight anymore, she doesn’t resist, and much like Regina once predicted she seems to anticipate what’s needed, settling herself easily and uncomplainingly back onto her knees at eye level as Regina stands in front of her. 

Waiting. 

“Do you want a drink?” Regina finds herself asking. “I do.”

The seam of Emma’s mouth splits open, moist and inviting, as her brow crinkles together.

“If… if you wish.” A pause and then Emma hurries to complete the sentence. “My Queen.”

Regina frowns. 

“It’s not a hard question, Emma. Do you want it or not?”

She watches Emma’s eyes flicker back and forth over her face, obviously trying to decipher the game, the expected outcome, and Regina forces her expression blank, tries to keep the flare of irritation to a minimum. 

“Then yes.” Emma nods, without hesitation, and Regina is not even surprised at the words that follow. “If it pleases you.”

Grabbing Emma’s chin, Regina holds it still while she studies the face in front of her, none too gently. And there, yes, there is Emma Swan, buried deep inside those eyes. Large, limpid eyes, but it’s there, a small spark of vindication and knowledge and rebellion. 

Regina grins as she calls forth the tray, fingers closing around the stem of the goblet and raising it to her lips to drink with her right hand, left still closed tightly on Emma’s chin. 

When she lowers the goblet, Emma is still watching, silent, and Regina lifts the carafe as she tilts Emma’s chin upwards, head back. It’s not a difficult puzzle to solve and Emma opens her mouth obediently, beautifully, and swallows the first few mouthfuls easily. 

She watches Emma’s throat greedily, the rise and fall of muscles constricting and releasing, until she feels Emma stir in her hands, the smallest indication, but Regina doesn’t stop. Eyes flying up to Emma’s face, Regina smiles as she watches the comprehension war with discomfort and the slightest edge of panic. 

Emma’s struggle lies in not struggling, as her body fights for breath, and the wine begins to bubble out of her mouth, down the sides of her face and neck. 

“Good girl.” Regina leans forward and whispers to the gurgling sounds in front of her, the jump of Emma’s body in her hand. “Just a little more.”

But she is impatient, she has always been too impatient, and Regina slams the container back down on the tray, feeling the entire thing disappear under her touch, her left hand pushing Emma’s chin up even further to the sound of her gasping. 

Regina’s mouth closes hungrily on the wine soaked skin of Emma neck, body pushing forward until she feels Emma against her. Her right hand closes in around Emma’s waist and holds her still as she suckles all the taste, salt and sweet wine, from the pulse thready throat. 

“Yes.” Murmurs Emma, answering a question that has not been asked. “My Queen, yes.”

And Regina’s only reply is to push Emma’s face to the side, giving her access to the skin of her neck and jaw, underneath her ear, laving her tongue in long stripes and sucking hard enough to leave marks. 

She does not fight the hands that rise and settle in her hair, the back of her head, does not stop them even as they pull her closer, hold her tightly. 

It’s not enough and Regina’s hand leaves Emma’s chin, finds its partner at the small of Emma’s back and together they begin pulling, tugging at the ribbon that holds the dress together. A small growl of warning is enough to stop Emma’s hands doing the same to her. No. 

Regina is going to strip Emma naked, not the other way around. 

Emma is made of curves and circles and rises and dips and valleys, beautifully toned and saliva slips down Regina’s teeth, hunger curling deep in her belly alongside another feeling she refuses to acknowledge, a dark growling _need_. 

Pliant and perfect, Emma’s hands rest comfortably and light on the back of Regina’s head, holding Emma steady more than they are holding Regina still as she crawls up on the bed, Emma’s naked skin sliding against her bodice as she mouths the breasts open to her. 

Nipples swell in her mouth as Regina swirls her tongue, releasing with a soft sucking sound to eye the purpling skin as a growing, growling keening hums above her head. 

“Do you know how beautiful you are, Emma, when you’re thoroughly _fucked?_ ” She whispers it, hot and dirty like an insult, to the hollow of her throat, up across her collar bone. “When you’re ravished and moaning and wanton?”

Her only reply is a louder keen, a desperate mewl that would be begging were it legible. 

Regina walks on her knees, sliding up and around Emma’s shoulder, kissing a wet trail over bone until she positions herself at Emma’s back, left hand sliding up to tangle in long blonde hair and pull down, pressing her front against Emma’s spine and Emma’s head back against her shoulder. 

She invades Emma’s mouth with a hard, hungry, insistent tongue, while her right hand slips in under Emma’s arm, around to her flat belly to lay her open palm and five splayed fingers across taut flesh. 

“You like to be fucked, don’t you?” Emma’s body jerks in her hands, against her mouth, but a second later she feels Emma’s head nod in acquiescence. “Tell me why.”

Nothing but a gasp escapes Emma’s throat, loud and breathy in Regina’s ear. 

“The men who’ve pushed open your thighs and rode you hard.” She cups Emma’s breast, pinches her nipple hard. “Tell me why you love how they fuck you.”

One quick, gentle pull of Emma’s hair reminds her to answer quickly. 

“They’re rougher.” The words scratch out of Emma’s throat, too quick to be anything but real, and Regina can practically hear the gears turning as Emma scrambles for something else to say. “They’re bigger. They smell nice, sex and sweat and man.”

Emma’s body follows as Regina lowers herself, resting her bottom on her feet, bringing Emma to sit on her lap. Her knees separate, spreading Emma’s legs above her and Regina wastes no time in preamble as she brings both hands down and cups the offered mound, slipping fingers through wet skin. 

“Ohhh.” Emma moans, hips jerking in the narrow cavern Regina’s arms create. “Their skin, gravelly, unshaven, man skin. And, uh, they like… girls. They like…. me.”

Regina takes the lobe of Emma’s right ear between her teeth and keeps it there with a gentle pressure, not a bite, as she plants the middle finger of her left hand on Emma’s clit and jams three fingers of her right hand as far up Emma as she can, wet and open and ready Emma. 

“They like touching… me. They like me… touching them.” Emma’s voice cracks, a broken plea as she continues. “Good. It feels good. Men. Inside… god… please, please, My Queen.”

And Regina removes her hands and leans back as Emma whimpers, body shuddering in frustration. 

“And the women?” Regina purrs, laying her slick wet fingers on Emma back, resting there for a moment before pushing Emma forward onto her belly. “Why do you love how _they_ fuck you?”

She lowers herself down on top of Emma, to the sound of a half moaned release of breath, clothed chest to Emma’s naked spine. 

“They’re softer.” Pleads Emma as she clutches the sheets next to her face. “They taste… god… women’s skin… the smell…I like… breasts.”

Regina lays soft kisses to each of the knobs of Emma’s spine, one by one, pausing only to trace her tongue along the curved ridges of shoulder blades that stick up. She shifts one knee between Emma’s, splitting her thighs open once again and her right hand slides itself over the rise of Emma’s buttocks, between the crack and under. 

“They know how to touch…” It comes out as a cry, a capitulation as Emma’s hips buck up against Regina’s, angling herself open that much more to Regina’s fingers. “And the sounds.”

She pushes her fingers back in, begins the same rhythm as before, riding the throes of Emma’s twitching body. 

“A woman coming makes… the best… sounds.” The words are struggling out of Emma now, trying desperately to make sense. “Gasping… and panting… and…”

Regina blows lightly as she slides up Emma’s back, leaving goosepimples in her wake until her mouth is right next to Emma’s ear, then she moans. Hot breath blows back in her face and she doesn’t stop, letting her own hoarse voice slide out in guttural, broken moans in the same syncopated rhythm of their humping. 

Emma’s body tightens as she tilts her head up, blindly searches until she can slide her mouth against Regina’s. 

It’s messy and sloppy and desperate and Regina pulls back, climbs back up on shaky knees as she looks down at the flinch of disappointment that rides Emma’s entire form. It’s easy to grab her hip and flip her over. 

“And me.” Regina demands finally, crawling back down until she’s face to face. “What do you love about me fucking you?”

She doesn’t wait for any response before she finger fucks Emma with her right hand, hard and fast and brutal, staring her right in the eyes as she holds herself up with her left hand. 

“You.” It’s a gasp, breaking out of Emma’s mouth hard and painful as Emma lifts her legs up and wraps them around Regina’s back. “Everything, all of it, you.”

Slamming her mouth down hard on Emma’s, Regina thumbs Emma’s clit as she twists her fingers, again and again and again, until Emma comes. 

“Yesssssss.” Emma’s body undulates, grabbing with hands and mouth and pussy until the waves begin to recede. “God, yes.”

Withdrawing her hand, Regina looks down at the sated body under hers, Emma’s closed lids, peaceful expression and fluid heavy limbs lying limp. She reaches up and spreads her fingers along the gold band at Emma’s neck, watching the smears left in their wake. 

A small, sharp tug and nothing happens. Interesting. 

Regina rolls onto her back and shades her eyes with her right arm. From this angle, she can smell Emma on her fingers. 

“You have ten minutes to pack, Emma, I suggest you don’t waste them.”

The bed rolls, dips next to her. 

“Huh?” Emma’s voice is slow and thick and confused. “It’s not time yet.”

“Get out of my castle.” Regina says, cold and calm and cruel. “Go live with your mother.”

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a kingdom, Emma. I am willing to fight for you. Your mother is eager to fight. Your people, their people’s people, everyone will do your bidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.   
> **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** It was a very confusing set of circumstances.

***

The kitchen is alive with noise and movement and heat. 

Snow feels a prickle of sweat at the nape of her neck and rolls her head to dislodge it, reaching across the bench to grab a clean mug and place it on the tray in front of her amid the slices of bread and cheese and fruit. The space is crowded, cooks preparing truncheons of breakfast foods for the town that will be making their way to the hall all morning. 

She turns to fetch some milk and finds herself twisting to avoid the small body that steps in closer. 

Henry says nothing as he adds the crooked stem of a winter rose to the tray with ice dusted fingers swollen red and Snow merely runs a hand through his hair, fingers curling into the divot that is his neck. 

This is their routine, silent and uncomplaining. 

“All done.” She says, finally, with only a small amount of the cheer having to be forced. “Looks good today.”

He gives a small smile in return and raises his brows in question, hands already reaching for the handles. 

“No.” It hurts her to deny him, but it’s better this way. “Sorry Henry. I’ll take it again this time. She’ll be up soon, perhaps you can take her to the library again later. I know she enjoyed it yesterday.”

His shoulders sag for a second, but he rallies well enough and nods, giving her hand a hopeful squeeze before turning and weaving his way out of the room. 

There are several flights of stairs to climb and Snow’s legs are definitely getting stronger as she does this day after day, for over a week now. It would be easy enough to have someone else do it, prepare the food and carry it, but she gets a perverse sort of accomplishment from doing it all herself. 

She knocks on the door, gently, but it’s only a formality really. 

The first thing she does when she enters Emma’s room is scan the bed. She sighs when she finds it empty, closes the door gently, and knows where to look next. Placing the tray on a side table, Snow walks to the windows and ties back the curtains, letting light into the chamber. 

She smooths down the leftover bedding, stretching it tight in the closest approximation of a made bed as she can. The closet is next and Snow chooses a warm woollen dress, plain and simple and blue, laying it softly on the bed with the accompanying under things.

When all of that is done, Snow looks down at the sheet and furs that have been dragged to the floor and the form that is curled up inside them. 

In an hour, maybe two, Emma will walk down the stairs and join the crowd, go about her day in a dreamlike state. She eats and talks and smiles, but it’s like she’s not really here, and for the first few days it wasn’t even Emma at all. But now things are looking more permanent, as if she might actually stay, and she’s breaking out of her shell. Now, once she leaves this room, she interacts and at least tries to play healthy, healing princess for the masses. 

Emma is like her old car, Snow thinks with a fondness she doesn’t usually reserve for Storybrooke memories. Her motor runs fine once she’s awake, but some mornings she needs a little bit of a jump start before she can function properly.

There is a danger, she knows, in continuing this charade. In indulging Emma by choosing her clothes and bringing her food and not forcing her to do much of anything for herself, but Snow cannot play the villain right now. Not yet. 

It will have to be done soon. 

There are too many people here, too many smart and observant people for this to remain hidden. Henry will find out soon enough, Snow can only keep him at bay for so long before he discovers the extent of Emma’s damage and that will surely destroy him. James is already beginning to watch suspiciously as Snow fusses and watches and bends to Emma’s every need. 

She does not know what happened, only that she had argued with Regina and by the time she had returned, the castle had been in an uproar. Henry was the first to run to her, telling her in an excited voice that Emma was back. Back for good. Emma had been devastated and confused and more than a little broken. 

Fresh, cool milk pours easily into the mug and Snow folds her legs underneath her, settles herself easily on the floor. 

“Emma?” She calls it softly, running a hand over the side of her daughter’s face, through her hair. “Emma, are you awake?”

It takes very little time for Emma to switch from sleeping to sitting upright, one blink from bleary eyed to alertness. Snow barely notices anymore, that snap to authority, the readiness to obey. She forces herself not to notice. 

“It’s going to be cold today.” She keeps the one sided conversation going, light and casual. “Winter’s really set in, there was frost inside the halls.”

Emma drinks uncomplainingly, she eats everything on the tray. She dresses quickly and sits patiently on the bed while Snow climbs up behind her and brushes her hair, braiding the top half into intricate patterns. Because she can, because nobody else thinks to do it, because it suits Emma. 

Because she has twenty eight years to make up for. 

All too soon, when they are finished this little routine, Emma slips through the day quietly, dazedly, keeping herself that little bit separated from everything and everyone. As still as a piece of furniture in the crowd, following Henry around without a word as he leads her from room to room to observe, obeying everything Snow suggests with a quiet little nod. 

And even though Emma is here, Snow does not feel it as a victory. 

***

“That was, perhaps, unwise Your Majesty.”

Regina grits her teeth and closes her eyes, waiting for the sound of the sobbing girl to trail down the castle away from the large hall. Her eyes flash harshly to the shimmering mirror on the side table in front of her. 

“Perhaps if the girl learned how to serve meals on time or to keep rooms tidy, I wouldn’t feel the need to…” She twirls her wrist, hand flowing in a circle. “… exert my influence.”

“You threw fireballs at her feet!”

“She’s lucky I didn’t throw them at her eyebrows.” She sighs and lifts her left hand, letting the fingers land on the top of the mirror one by one. “And you’re starting to bore me.”

She slams it down to the table, obscuring Sydney’s face. It occurs to her that she does not know if the Genie has a proper name and she never cared enough to ask. To be honest, she still doesn’t. She stands with a sigh and decides to just retire to her chamber.

“I don’t think I’m the problem here.”

His face sparks to life on the wall next to her and Regina’s lip curls. 

“Really, Your Majesty.” He chases her along the castle. “This is becoming… unseemly. For you, for a Queen.”

It makes her stop, arms in close to her body and hands close into her abdomen.

“I’m not a Queen. Or don’t you remember?”

She leaves him, stuck in his own little square on the wall. It doesn’t last long, she doesn’t expect it to, he’ll follow her from room to room, basking in the freedom to move as he will now that she no longer covers him. 

Now that…

Changing her mind suddenly, Regina steps backwards for several steps, watching a mirror ahead glow a muted shade of green. She turns easily and begins the descent down the stairs. 

“I remember.” He meets her in the main hall, a large and foreboding space, empty. “Do you? You haven’t left this castle since we’ve been back.”

She stops at the large double doorway, lungs pulling just a little too hard for breath, before turning around. It’s not an entrance, suddenly she sees it for what it really is, a prison, her own stone cage. 

Some things never change. 

“And where am I supposed to go?” It hisses out of her throat and she wishes it sounded calmer, stronger, more in control. “The entire kingdom has rallied against me, circling Snow White. Shall I go riding up to their castle keep and knock on the door? Do you think I should bring something to be polite? An apple pie, perhaps?”

He ignores the bite. 

“Maybe not apple.”

A soft sound gurgles out of her throat, part desperation, but mostly gratitude. 

“Yes.” She hums. “That would be pushing it.”

The silence swirls around her thickly and she can hear her pulse beating in her ears. 

“Do you want to see?” He tempts her, voice honey sweet. “I could show you.”

Instantly her eyes flick to the nearest mirror, large, and she’s drawn there, step after step, watching his smug face. He sees too much, it’s one thing she let herself forget in Storybrooke, when he was just a man. Begging and bowing and scraping and hers, always hers, but mortal and a man just the same. 

But he’s back now, with a vision too accurate and too precise to be comfortable. 

“No.” But her voice is too soft and she dares to lift one hand, tracing a line across the glass. “Noooo.”

She can just see it, in her mind, if she looks behind him, sees beyond his face to the other side. The picture begins to shimmer and she draws her hand back, separating herself immediately. 

“No, I said. As if I want to see her revelry.” She forces the scorn to sharpen her voice. “They’re probably all drunk on ale and wine, singing songs about my death.”

“Hardly.” He swims back into focus. “You overestimate her ability to recover.”

That image does nothing to settle the ever swirling storm in her stomach, the growling need to get up and move. She does not notice her hand returning until it touches the glass again, tapping her fingernails and then rolling the pad of her fingers down. 

He reads her desire before she can stop him and the picture swirls again. 

“Enough.” The brief flicker of blonde is enough to curdle whatever patience she has left. “Leave me be.”

Her fingers curl into a fist, pulling backwards and away before slamming it back hard, hearing and feeling the cracking of the glass as one. Twisting her wrist in front of her face, Regina watches with detached curiosity as three trickles of blood slide down, rolling over her skin. She clenches harder to feel the sting before she spins on her heels and begins to walk. 

Maybe enough time has passed to put Maleficent in a more forgiving mood. 

***

He is no fool. 

He is quiet and observant and prefers to work around conflict before jumping straight in, if he possibly can, but he’s not a fool. His wife is loved by the land, their marriage and the story leading to it is loved, and by logical follow through he is admired by many. But he is often overlooked. 

James crumples the cloth napkin in his hand and stands up. 

“Come on, Emma. Let’s go for a walk.”

Such a small gesture, over before it’s begun, but he sees the way her eyes slide to the right before she nods and stands to follow without comment. It does nothing but confirm his already strong suspicion, knowing that she just asked her mother’s approval. 

And the silent way it was given. 

She trails after him through the castle halls, a step or two behind, never quite raising her eyes to meet his. 

When they reach the small room, he watches the way she cradles her arms in close to her body, the way she pretends not to pay attention to him as he hefts the wood to bar the door and the quick flash of wide eyes before she snaps her head back down to the floor. 

“I thought we could talk.” He shrugs as an explanation and watches her glance back to the barred door behind him. “In private.”

It’s a plain room, mostly unused, too small for any real purpose, on the ground level and too open to drafts to use as any kind of emergency chambers. There is a shelf to his right and he pulls her over by her wrist. 

She’s easy to lead, unresisting and unquestioning, and she keeps her hand still as he holds it in his, turns it over until her palm faces upwards. She has such strong heart and life lines that he takes a moment to trace them with his finger, before bringing a length of cotton to wind around her fingers and palm. 

Her head tilts, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“I know you’re hiding.” The cotton goes around and around and around. “And it’s really nice of you to let your mother play nursemaid.”

She flexes the immobile fingers of her left hand while he does the same to her right, probably understanding already what he’s doing. 

“But you can’t keep on like this forever.” There’s a chain hanging down on the left wall and he tugs it free. “So, let’s talk.”

The bag falls with a heavy thud, swinging dumbly in a cloud of sawdust and straw from a hook on the ceiling. Emma eyes it with a mute interest. 

She knows, he can tell. 

“Come on, Emma.” Walking to the far side, he holds the bag in place, steadies it, looking her in the eye. “Hit it.”

For a brief second, their eyes meet, and then she shrugs and looks away first. 

It’s a small thud, her right hand smacking against the bag, wrist and elbow loose and the motion shuddering in recoil all the way back to her shoulder. 

“What was that?” He challenges. “Are you trying to _comfort_ it?”

Her head shakes, a denial. 

“I don’t…” Such a soft, soft voice, it sounds strange to the David in his brain. She was never this timid. “I… can’t.”

With one hand on each side of the makeshift punching bag, James leans his shoulder into it, pushes his face forward to make his point. 

“I think you can.” She still won’t look at him. “I know you pulled David’s unconscious form from danger a time or two, your arrest record as Sheriff speaks for itself, and you had too much upper body strength and developed arm muscles not to have some training. Hit it.”

He does not mention the condition of her body now, the loss of muscle tone and weight has done her no favours. This time when their eyes meet, the flicker lasts a bit longer, Emma Swan way down deep like a little pin prick of light at the end of a murky, clouded tunnel. 

Her fist connects and he sees the difference in her stance before he feels the impact, strong and hard. 

“There.” Repositioning his own weight, he nods at her not to stop. “I knew it.”

With each punch, James can see a spark in her face, that very instant her fist connects with the bag, the small explosion of sawdust and hay fragments released from loosely textured hessian. 

“Hiding is easy.” He continues, when he thinks she’s worked up enough to hear what he has to say. She pauses, just long enough for him to notice, and then the bag is rocked again. “You had so much dumped on you, so quickly. A child, a family, an entire town counting on you to save them, a dragon, magic, and then the reality of this world and more pressure. I know why you stopped.”

Her eyes rise again, a glare this time, before she looks back down. And then his shoulder is rocked in quick succession, a one-two-three combo of right and left. 

“You’re not helping anyone like this.” Their heads quirk to the side at the same time and as their eyes meet again, James breathes out before she looks away. “But that’s why, isn’t it? If you can’t do anything, you can’t be responsible for anyone. Is that right?”

It’s strange, chasing out those brief few seconds where she’ll meet his eyes, where he can actually see her, learning more about his daughter in those flashes than in the countless spans of time she stands dutifully and silently still. 

“No.” It’s punctuated by a particularly hard punch, the first direct word she’s spoken in his hearing. “You have no clue what it’s like… what…”

But it falls again and she reigns herself back in, stepping back and away from the force of her own voice. 

“I know…” The words stick in his throat, unwanted and ugly and repentant. “… you haven’t had the easiest life.”

It’s not how he wanted this to go, but he prefers her angry to nothing at all. 

“You know shit.” A sound crackles up, not a laugh, just a bitter exhalation. “And I’m so sorry my breakdown is hard for you to handle, but not all of us had charmed lives.”

She punctuates her words with more punches to the bag, hitting the target with fair accuracy, even though he gets the feeling that she’d rather be hitting him instead. 

“Oh, I see.” He sets his elbows and squares his shoulders. “Because of the name your mother gave me. Yes. Well, going by that theory, we’d all assume you were an ugly child because your name is Swan.”

This hit is brutal. 

“Not ugly enough for some.”

It’s mumbled, quiet, and he’s not sure he’s supposed to hear it or the dark undercurrents of what it infers. He doesn’t want to know it. He listens instead to the way she shrugs her shoulders and keeps moving, indicating in no uncertain terms that she’s pretending it doesn’t exist and expecting him to do the same. 

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to do the easy thing, because the right thing was too hard? I let myself be engaged to a princess by a man who wasn’t my father, I planned the wedding instead of fighting for your mother. And you and I both know how much David covered himself in glory back in Storybrooke.”

She shrugs again, a dismissal, and he can read her like he can read everyone else, brushing it off like it never happened, like it meant nothing. _Oh, you mean those twenty-eight odd years we spent acting like different people? Bygones…_

But ignoring it won’t change anything, this he knows. It doesn’t change his memories and it doesn’t erase the ways in which David’s mistakes have changed him. 

“Let me tell you this, Emma. The first and possibly most important piece of fatherly advice, whether you want it or not.”

He can see the way in which his words shake her, she tries to hide it, but this is the very first time he hasn’t brushed aside his role in her life, hasn’t merely nodded and moved on, leaving her to sort out her feelings. Snow is more forceful, pushing at the mother role relentlessly, but James feels alien assuming the role his James sided brain feels he’s skipped. 

One blink and she was an adult. The logical side of his brain tells him all the platitudes he needs to hear, it’s not his fault, it was barely his choice, he is her father and there’s nothing wrong in trying to act like it. But it’s not that simple, it’s never that simple, and on her twenty-eighth birthday he was a stranger to her. 

“That way only made things harder.” This is a lesson that did not change, world to world. “The only time things ever got better was when I took action. When I moved forward on my own accord. When I made my own choices, I saved your mother, I saved Princess Abigail’s fiancé, we united kingdoms, fought King Charles and Regina. I slayed dragons.”

This she knows, this is something they share, they even share the sword. 

Even as their eyes meet, her shoulders deflate, lose some of the defensive hitch that had held them tight. 

“So what…” She bites her lip and inhales. “… what do you want me to do?”

Wake up, he thinks. 

“Nothing.” He says instead. “It’s not about what I want, it’s about what _you_ want.”

The shake of her head, slow and dazed, seems to indicate confusion. But he’s not a fool. 

“Make a decision, Emma, and act on it.” 

“I…” There’s a struggle behind her eyes and James is glad of it, if nothing else. The first sign of life. “I… can’t.”

He spreads his hands out and indicates the room around them, beyond it, past the locked door and the castle walls and the forest and waters surrounding them. 

“You have a kingdom, Emma. I am willing to fight for you. Your mother is eager to fight. Your people, their people’s people, everyone will do your bidding.” He makes sure to grab the bag again, steady his shoulder and set his feet. “Even Regina has fought for you in her own way.”

The hit comes hard. 

“But not you.” He doesn’t stop. “You’re the only one not fighting for yourself.”

It’s a frustrated, strangled little sound that sounds out of her mouth. 

“What am I supposed to do?” This time when she looks at him, it is all Emma Swan, and he sees the question spring from somewhere deeper than her eyes, her mind, much further, a broken kind of plea that a daughter might ask her father maybe once in her lifetime. “You tell me to fight, but… if I do, I start a war. People will die.”

She tries to hit out again, but the feeling isn’t there. It barely ricochets into his arm. 

“Maybe I’m the one fighting less, but I have the least choice.” She reaches up and traces the shape of the collar underneath the high neck of her winter dress. “I’m not there, but I’m not here. It’s not over. I’m still hers. I can’t live here knowing… at any moment…”

There is nothing to say to that. He’s still unsure why Regina sent her away, not even Snow can piece that information together, from her own meeting with Regina and any conversation she’s had with Emma since. And because nobody knows why, nobody can say for sure how permanent it is. 

Emma’s right, any moment could see her pulled back without warning. 

“What do you want?” He asks again. “Say the word, Emma, tell me now you’re ready to end this and we’ll make it happen. One way or another, it will be.”

She looks away and her arms close in again, back to her torso. 

“Or…” He can’t believe he’s suggesting it, can’t believe for a second. “Do you want to go back?”

It’s hard to miss the flinch that crosses her face and he could kick himself. 

He has been too busy, they all have, planning and researching and training, preparing for a battle that only need Emma’s say so to begin. Too busy to even imagine, let alone notice the very real danger in front of her. 

All except Snow. 

“You’re grieving.” He wants to take the words back the second before he’s said them, but they tumble out anyway, and they’re the wrong thing. She slams back into defensive, hands grabbing at her elbows and clutching tightly. “She got to you.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. It’s obvious, now that he thinks about it, so obvious. This is how Regina works. He’s been her prisoner before, down under her castle, and this was one of the first tricks she’d tried. And he remembers the desperate act of Mayor Mills, trying to seduce him as one last act against Mary Margaret when all else had failed. 

“Don’t…” Emma shakes her head, denying it. “Please… just… don’t.”

This is what he should tell her, that it’s not her fault, that she’s not the first and won’t be the last. A casualty of war, nothing more and nothing less. 

Instead, he lets the bag go, swinging limply and abandoned, as he steps around it and takes her face in his hands, holds her still as he looks in her eyes. 

“My advice is the same.” He says. “Decide what you want, what you need, and get it.”

Her eyebrows sink, a broken expression on her face. 

“I… I…”

It’s shame that floods her features, self-loathing, and he could kill Regina, murder her in cold blood if she were standing in front of him. He has disliked her before, with a vengeance, but until this moment he has never truly hated anyone. 

He should be leading the charge, right now, Emma’s edict or no. 

“Look in your heart.” James tells his daughter, instead, something that might actually save her. “Is she truly evil, do you think? Is there nothing good?”

***

_Regina gasps for air that just doesn’t seem to come._

_“Mother!” Hot bands of air squeeze her abdomen. “You can’t do this anymore. I’m the Queen!”_

_Cora merely laughs._

_“And who made you Queen, darling daughter?” Regina feels the restraining force let her go, but she doesn’t move, staying still as one long, red fingernail trails down her cheek. “If I’d left it up to you, you’d be hunkering down in some barn, cuddling up to livestock for warmth. Show some respect.”_

_She feels a tear, acid hot, leak out of the corner of her eye._

_“Please.” The last of her hope rests on this moment. “Don’t take him away.”_

_Turning away, assured she won’t move against her mother, Cora picks up the small, ornate box, running her fingers over the lid. Regina’s lips tremble as she looks at the lock and then she raises her eyes, past Cora’s shoulder, and into soft, limpid, water weak eyes._

_“Daddy…”_

_“Look at you.” Cora continues caressing the box, showcasing it like a prize, teasing her daughter with the contents. “Playing at magic like a little girl, with your spells and potions, as if you’ll ever be able to match me at anything.”_

_When she was a little girl, Regina envied other children their parents, that affection and pride and joy she saw showered on her friends. Somehow, right down deep, she knew that was the norm. But this is all the currency she has ever known, power and magic and manipulation, she learned it early and the trade is quick and rarely clean._

_“Your husband, the King, is getting frustrated with your sullen attitude, my child.” Cora’s eyes narrow. “You could try to be a little more pleasing, for all our sakes.”_

_Headstrong, they call her, but Regina knows it’s something else._

_“Pleasing? I never wanted this, Mother, I never wanted…”_

_She’s not prepared for the hand at her throat, the physicality so unlike her mother as she closes her hand to the point that Regina is fighting to breathe._

_“But you have it.” Cora sneers. “You are married to the man and you will make him happy, so that he continues to rain favours upon your family. You will give him sons. Don’t be selfish, daughter, or I will be more so. Do you understand?”_

_Regina nods, trying not to grab at the wrist at her throat._

_“I know what you’re doing. Trying to learn magic to beat me? Just remember, if you do…” Cora holds up the box, turns it side to side to offer Regina the best view possible. “I have this. Anything you do to me, will be done to him. I have your father’s heart, so don’t push me. Or I will kill him like I killed your stableboy.”_

_Unable to stop herself this time, Regina fights back, lunging forward with a feral cry. She lands one inch of terrain, just a scratch, one fingernail down the side of Cora’s right cheek._

_“What is the meaning of this?”_

_The voice booms loud and authoritative in the room and everybody reacts. Henry looks to his feet, Cora dips in a curtsy. And Regina… Regina takes two instinctive steps backwards until she feels the wall against her spine, pressing into it to keep herself upright._

_“Your Majesty…”_

_Cora dips again, voice honey sweet, but Leopold sweeps past her immediately and comes to stand in front of his wife, his face impassive and hard._

_“Did I just see you strike Lady Cora?”_

_There is no reason to lie and Regina swallows._

_“Yes.” She nods into the growing silence, looking up to meet stone cold eyes upon her. “My King.”_

_“You might be Queen, My Lady, but you will still respect your mother. Apologise.”_

_Regina’s eyes slide past Leopold to see a small trickle of blood sliding down Cora’s triumphant face. She bites her cheek and tries not to feel the injustice, tries to tamp it down, but she can’t help it._

_“She’s not my mother.”_

_Anger spikes clearly in Leopold’s eyes, but it is the wheedling voice of her mother that pools dread in Regina’s belly._

_“Do you see, Your Grace? Do you see what I put up with?”_

_Something passes in his eyes and Regina frowns, takes note of the flicker of irritation. It seems that while her husband has little patience or love for her, he has less for Cora._

_“I know little of your squabbles.” He says it to Cora, but his eyes are on Regina. “But after twelve months, I do know my wife is not prone to fits of drama. Or lying. Explain yourself.”_

_This could be her chance, Regina thinks, taking the time to choose her words. In the corner of her vision, she can see Cora’s face and recognises instantly the look of panic, the warning that is clear. But here, perhaps only here in front of the King, Cora is tempered._

_“The rumours are true.” She says. “My mother has dark magic. She has my father’s heart in that box and is trying to threaten me with it. She… she killed my betrothed.”_

_“Your Grace.” Pleads Cora, her voice dropping to amused, indulged parent. “She’s overwhelmed. It’s been a long day, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. Forgive her.”_

_At this Regina steels her face and admits to her husband what she has kept secret until now._

_“Yes, I do. She killed him to ensure my marriage to you.”_

_Leopold takes his time to digest this information, eyes flickering between mother and daughter, straying only once to the man in the corner who has yet to speak. When his gaze fixes once again upon her, calculating, Regina’s breath catches._

_He takes another step closer and Regina presses further back against the wall, hands flat at her sides. She fights her instincts, fights them hard, but cannot stop the flinch when his hand lifts towards her face, cannot stop the slight turn of her head until it’s too late._

_His fingers curl away from her skin when she does._

_“It seems we’ve both been manipulated. Now you’re stuck with an old man.” His words are soft, but loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. “And I’m stuck with wife whose womb is as barren as her heart.”_

_She is helpless to stop the gasp that breaks from her lips._

_“Please.” Her breath is coming shallowly and too quickly, desperate to reclaim the hope he’d given her. “I ask nothing from you, nothing. But, please, make her give my father back. Give me this.”_

_He gives her a gentle smile as his thumb presses forward and slides against her bottom lip._

_Her King, who has not struck her, who would not reign upon her a fraction of the violence she has suffered at her mother’s hand and yet who yields nothing to her, not love nor affection, nor any form of kindness she would expect from a husband. He terrifies her, especially in this, though it is a muted horror now. Old and stale._

_“And if I agree? If I give My Lady what she asks, will she be a better wife? Will she finally welcome her husband without argument as she should?”_

_Blood rushes to her cheeks and she forces herself not to look up, not to meet the eyes of her parents overhearing this conversation so clearly not meant for them. Regina’s fingers clench against the wall, a spasm that pulls at her fingernails, a pain she clings to._

_“Yes.” Her stomach falls and her voice is flat. “Yes, My King, I give my word.”_

_He watches her, calculating eyes as pointed as a hawk, makes her dangle on that string until she stops breathing, until the tiny flicker hope returns, grows and sparks and lights up._

_“No, I don’t think you would.” He says at last, turning his back on her completely and facing Cora. “Teach your daughter the benefits of respecting her elders.”_

_Regina can’t quite keep in the sob as her husband walks out of the room, leaving her with the self-satisfied gleam in her mother’s eye._

_“Guards.” His voice sounds from the hall just before the door closes. “When your lady is finished here, escort her to my bedchamber.”_

***

“Lady Georgia.” He places another figurine on the map set out before him. “Third in succession after King Manuel.”

The little wooden Queen topples the existing King and he knocks it out of the way, settling her among her little wooden subjects. The landscape is flat, but his imagination is enough to build the mountains and valleys and lakes and oceans set out. 

Henry turns his head and sighs. 

“Emma.” But she doesn’t look at him. “Are you paying attention? This is the history of your people.”

She is curled up in a chair by the window, a small little arch set in the stone of the library. Silvery light trickles over her face, echoing the snow that has begun to fall. 

“You’ll need to know.” He says. “It could be important when the battle begins.”

At this her head rolls and she looks at him. He smiles as a reflex, this rare moment of clarity. They don’t talk about it with him, but one thing he has always been is observant. When all of them doubted, he was the one that believed, that fought for the end of the curse. 

And nobody can hide Emma’s distance, no matter how they try. 

But it doesn’t last long with the way her eyes narrow, a frown in the middle of her forehead. 

“No battles, Henry.” She sits up, the rest of her body turning to follow the focus of her gaze. “No. I won’t have any deaths on my head.”

His hand forgets itself and the little wooden figures fall, roll in a grind against the table top as he turns to face her fully. 

“But…” The trees and mountains and rivers blur, dissolving as he crashes back down to reality. “But everyone is training. They’re getting ready to fight.”

Her teeth bite her lip, straining. 

“How can you want this?” When she stands up, he feels suddenly smaller. “How can you, Henry Mills, want people to die?”

He doesn’t have an answer. There is no answer. He doesn’t want people to die, of course he doesn’t, but there hasn’t seemed like any choice. Fighting is a given. Everyone just began talking battle strategies, he came into this world expecting the battle between good and evil. He spent months trying to convince Emma she would be the one to do it. 

To him, there was never a conscious choice. 

“Don’t you miss Storybrooke?” She appeals to him now, voice shaking near tears. “Don’t you miss just going to school? And walking in the park? And Saturday cartoons?”

The very words seem distant to him, abstract, like a movie he caught once. 

“But we’re here.” She has always been stubborn about accepting her role, he knows this, she will come around if he just stays strong. “We belong here. We’re fairy tales now, too.”

Her eyes are sad when she looks at him. 

“No, Henry… no. This isn’t written in any book, this is real.”

“But Emma!” It’s Storybrooke all over again, but this time everyone else believes and it’s only Emma that’s resisting. “That just means it isn’t written yet! We get to write our own story!”

He’s surprised to see the shining of her eyes, the sparkle that precedes tears, the way that her chin wobbles. 

“And what song will Disney sing when one of your mothers kills the other?”

Henry’s mouth falls open. He’s always just assumed that was a myth, some horribly overblown acting done for movies and television, but now he knows it’s real. He has no words, stunned by her candour. It takes moments for her to shake it off and horror to wash over her face. 

“Oh, Henry, no, I’m sorry.” Even as she wraps him in her arms and pulls him against her, she stays remote. “But you have to know, right? If you want this big battle of good and evil, if I’m good and your mother is evil, there’s only one way to end it. Right?”

As if he doesn’t know. As if he hadn’t shut down that part of his brain the second the pieces clicked into place and he understood that fairy tales were real.

“Henry.” Her hands hold his face still as she crouches down and looks him in the eye. “What if there’s another way? What if there’s no battle at all?”

He can’t think like that, closing his eyes he shakes his head. 

“You’re good.” Feeling like little more than a stubborn child, he keeps insisting. “And she’s evil.”

“What did she do to you?”

There’s a slight humming in the back of his brain that he frowns at, that he forces himself to ignore as he begins the litany. 

“She cursed everyone. She tried to kill Snow White. She killed people, Emma, she stole you from your parents.”

“Snow White.” Emma’s stubbornness matches his own. “This town. My parents. My life. Mine. But you, Henry, what did she do to you?”

He shakes his head again, the humming ever present and getting louder. And if he listens, if he stops to remember, he can hear a deep, sweet, caramel voice in his head, a familiar lilt buzzing as two people trip through their day. 

“No.” He stomps his foot, he actually does. “She’s evil.”

But it’s too late, she’s pressed too hard, and the door inside his brain he has kept locked tightly opens. A small trickle to begin with, one little crack as he sees a smiling face in his head, all teeth and laughter, then it explodes with a cascade of memories and a small hand reaching up to play with black hair. 

“She’s evil, Emma!” But he doesn’t believe it, he can’t keep his voice even. “There’s no other way!”

Because how can he be good if he doesn’t condemn evil?

He doesn’t realise he’s fighting until he feels her grab at his shoulders, trying to hold him still. 

“But what if there was?”

She has killed people, but she also kissed his knee while applying plaster to the graze when he fell off his bike. She poisoned an apple and tried to condemn his grandmother, Snow White, but she also taught him how to read at night, all cuddled up in her bed among the deep pillows and smell of apples. She uses dark magic to destroy people, anything that’s good, and yet she always made cookies with sprinkles on Sundays when he was eight. 

In that moment, for a brief flash, Henry hates Emma. 

He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to remember. It was easier to have a line and put people on either side of it, never the twain should meet. Some people good, some people bad. It meant there was no choice, no option, it meant he didn’t have to choose or grieve or hurt. 

But it’s gone before he can even tell himself it’s wrong. 

“She tortured you, Emma. She keeps you hostage.”

He can see the dismissal in her eyes before she even shakes her head. It angers him, confuses him, galls him this side of her that won’t stand up for herself, that stays quiet now and just _takes_ it. She’s the hero, the saviour, the white knight. 

She acts confused, like she’s forgotten the way he found her in the dungeon, like he hasn’t woken from a nightmare or twelve about that very thing, like he hasn’t seen with his very own eyes the pain she’s gone through. 

“It’s… complicated.”

And he scoffs. 

“That’s just what grown-ups say when they don’t want to talk about things.”

“How can I talk about it?” She lets his shoulders go, hands falling to her sides. “I don’t even know myself. I don’t understand it.”

It’s really not that complicated, he thinks immediately, his mother does bad things, she is the villain. But then he already knows it’s not that simple. 

“I don’t think they’re scared of her anymore.” He offers, trying to find the right words to say. “Gretel says everyone used to be scared, she says she saw a whole pile of little kids’ bones that she sent to the blind witch.”

Emma flinches in front of him. 

“But now not so much.” A shrug, because even though Gretel and the rest of the town believe it, he’s still not ready to. “She hasn’t threatened anyone, or killed anyone, she hasn’t even done any spells outside the castle.”

“See?” Emma jostles his shoulder the slightest little bit, an encouraging gesture. “That has to count, doesn’t it?”

And Henry rolls his eyes, because she still refuses to see. 

“If she was really doing it to be good, she wouldn’t need a price. She wouldn’t need you.”

“Oh, Henry.” Sad and tired, Emma leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, a soft warm pressure that he feels even after she lets go. “I wish I could explain it better.”

Yeah, he does, too. 

***

Red trips up the stone steps. 

She rather enjoys the echo of her shoes along the walls, tap tap tapping a staccato rhythm. Before the curse, before everything, she had only stayed in this castle a few times, before that she had never known much beyond her and Granny’s little cabin in the woods. Maybe they’ll get back there one day, maybe soon, but for now she’s happy enough to be included in the tight little circle of friends. 

A few people are talking, she knows, about heading out once the frost of winter clears, reclaiming their places in the surrounding forest and villages and what must be abandoned cottages and farms. 

She knocks on the door carefully, gently, just a little bit unsure of her reception, but a soft voice allows her entrance and Red slips through the door. 

“Hey.” It comes out softly. “How are you doing?”

Kneeling atop her bed, Emma gives a small smile in response. Barely even a smile, really, more a twitch in the corner of her mouth, but Red accepts it like a giant grin all the same. 

There are at least two other chairs, plus a large linen chest at the end of the bed much more appropriate to sit on, but Red knows that Emma doesn’t feel comfortable, won’t perch herself there unless expressly asked. 

She’s grateful for this time, this all too rare occurrence of Emma by herself, not surrounded by Snow or James or Henry. They mean well and Red is more than certain that Emma thrives for their comfort and attention, Snow with her quiet authority and nurturing, James with his watchful eye and subtle leadership and Henry with his forceful cheer and everlasting pep, but Red is just as sure that the entire package is just a little stifling. 

They meet here, when they get the chance, and Red smiles in camaraderie when she calls it a _girls night_. She gets the feeling that there are few friends in this place for Emma, few people that aren’t pushing or pulling her one way or another. 

It was quiet, to begin with, but after the third or fourth time, Emma has begun to loosen up just a little, showing more of the old Emma, humour and spirit and smartass, that rebel that rode into Storybrooke in an obnoxious yellow bug and woke everyone up. 

She’s not a fool, she doesn’t take _all_ the credit for Emma coming out of her shell. Three weeks is enough for anyone to stay shell shocked and Red knows that everyone else has had some words to her in one way or another. 

Yet she takes some pride in getting Emma to attempt a joke, in getting her to relax, when she sees it so rarely in front of the others. 

Red head quirks to the side and she spends several seconds just watching the woman sitting on her bed.

“Emma?” She asks, eventually, forgetting about the items in her hand. “What are you trying to do? Light it with the power of your glare?”

Another small smile twists the corners of Emma’s mouth as she looks up from the thick candle in front of her. 

“Actually, yes.”

Completely discarding the tray to a side table, Red’s eyes light up and she crawls up on the bed, tucking her knees up underneath her and resting her backside on her feet, mirroring the woman in front of her. 

“Really? You can do that?”

Magic is not unknown in this world and Red herself is the result of a dark magic twisting in her blood. She has seen her friends terrorised by an evil queen and has heard first-hand accounts of Rumplestiltskin’s abuse of power. 

Yet none of her friends, nobody she knows personally, can harness power in any sense of the word. 

“Yeah.” Emma ducks her head, the shy smile hovering. “Maybe. I think so. I did it before, once… maybe twice, I think.”

She has to take a breath, because this woman is a contradiction all her own, a confusing mix of Emma’s she has known and some she hasn’t. Emma of Storybrooke would never sit and stumble through a simple conversation, bright and loud and demanding focus. The Emma that was traded back and forth between castles, between Regina and Snow, shows in the way the woman keeps her movement small and minimal. 

And the gutted, practically comatose Emma that has shadowed these walls these last few weeks wouldn’t smile at all, let alone talk. 

“You think?” Red’s eyebrows knit together. “You don’t know? I mean, I think it would be fairly obvious.”

With a roll of Emma’s eyes, Red thinks perhaps the old Emma has been here all along, tempered and bound, withdrawn from everyone and everything. It washes over her like a wave of relief, it always does, seeing Emma somewhat normal. It relaxes her, makes her smile, enjoying this new old side of her friend. 

“It was a very confusing set of circumstances.” And then Emma reddens even more. “And I still don’t know how this world works.”

It comes to her like a scent in the air, some seventh sense above and beyond the wolf, something a little baser and brighter and cheekier. Something a little more Ruby flavoured, a hint of gossip as Emma toasted her glass back in Storybrooke and they laughed in the wee hours of the night. 

“Confusing?” Red teases, because if Ruby had known anything, it is this. “Confusing how?”

And Emma blushes further, ducking her head to hide her face. Drawing her arms in closer to her body. 

“The room was dark.” Emma elaborates, not looking her in the eye. “And it was just after… you know… and then something came over me and all the candles lit up.”

“Oh my god.” Ruby takes complete control, leaning forward with a little cackle. “Is Regina _that_ good?”

The complete and utter inappropriateness of it hits her at the same second she sees the widening of Emma’s eyes, the flinch that crosses her face and the way she shifts back, already distancing herself. 

“I mean…” She stumbles, cursing the way Ruby flees at the first sign of danger with her tail between her legs, when Red needs her the most. “You know, not… that… of course she’s not. Not, you know, the Queen and all. She’s evil.”

A sigh, heavy and weary, slumps Emma’s shoulders, but the timing almost makes Red think it’s not the subject matter, but her own backtracking. The way she let it get awkward, straying from the easy, familiar girl talk they’d both been enjoying.

Reaching out, Emma takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. 

“It’s okay, Red. Can I tell you a secret?” At Red’s nod, Emma continues, eyes sparkling just that little bit. “Sometimes she is that good.”

Red’s eyes widen and she forgets to blink. 

Then she remembers herself backing up, nearly falling off the bed in her haste to pick up the abandoned tray and bring it back to the bed. 

“Honey mead.” She says. “It’s sweet and a little sickly, but it’s the closest thing we’ve got to cocktails. And it packs a punch if you have too much.”

They share a smile. 

Yeah, Red thinks, Emma certainly is on her way back. 

“The very least she could have done.” Red sighs, settling more comfortably on top of the bed. “Is curse _somebody_ to be a distiller for Bailey’s or Tia Maria. God.”

And Emma laughs, small and hesitant, but sincere. 

“Besides.” Red hears Emma sigh. “I don’t think it was _that_ anyway. I mean, it only happened twice. Not every time.”

An irreverent thought tries to creep back in, sounding suspiciously like Ruby, but Red pushes it down as she thinks about the word. 

“After.” She thinks out loud, watching the woman watch the candle. “Not during. So what was different?”

Emma ducks her head again, looking straight down, but Red can hear her pulse beat fast, can practically see the veins in her neck throb. She can see the flicker of Emma’s eyelids, indicating the thought processes. 

“What was different then?” She continues. “That you don’t have anywhere else?”

“I… I was…” Emma stumbles over the words, looking up with wide eyes as she struggles for the right phrasing. Red can see the realization in them. “I was peaceful.”

There’s a flicker across Emma’s face, quick, but Red catches it and it takes her a second to recognise the fear for what it is, the expectation of dismissal, of reproach, of shame. Emma is waiting for Red to tell her how wrong she is. 

“And you’re not peaceful here?”

Frustration clouds Emma’s face and immediately Red regrets the question. 

No, Emma is not peaceful. Emma is on edge all the time, performing every second of every day for other people. She imagines that there is few times under Regina’s reign that the term can be applied as well. 

Red tries to calm the mix of images and memories in her head. She is not what anyone would call experienced. Her own love died before it began, at her hands no less. She has had little time or interest in looking for anyone else. And as Ruby, well, she acted big but it was all desire to be big, to get out, to move, to experience something other than a small town and small lives and a clock that never ticked. 

She is out of her depth to understand what made those the moments to reveal power to Emma. 

“I have… walls.” Emma seems also at a loss, struggling just as hard to define what she’s thinking. “That’s what Snow said, when she was Mary Margaret, she said I have walls. To protect myself.”

Their eyes meet and Red is somewhat distraught to realise that perhaps she understands exactly what Emma is trying to say. Yes, Red is really out of her depth. But Emma just shakes her head before Red can answer, before she can say anything that probably means nothing. 

“I need those walls.” It’s a soft, sad little determination that makes Emma sigh. “They’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

***

Regina’s top lip curls into a sneer. 

“You forget yourself, Huntsman.” The fingernail of her right index finger trails down the front of his neck, over the ridge of his manubrium and down to his chest. “Or would you prefer I just take out your heart here and now and be done with it?”

He laughs, he has the absolute gall to laugh at her, looking her up and down like a past lover who knows too much and not the captive he is. Her teeth clench. 

“As if you would.” He has a sneer all his own. “If you were going to do it, you’d have done it by now.”

She feels a quick flash of anger, red hot, but it leaves her too soon to do any good. Here he is, her prisoner, the man she has controlled for decades, and he is laughing, refusing point blank to bend to her will. To bend and scrape and cower before her. 

“Don’t tempt me.” Her palm lays flat against his pectorals, feeling the steady beat underneath them, but he still gives no reaction. Not even the chains around his wrists rattle. “Or maybe you’d like that? Hm? Maybe you want to be rid of your emotions and all that pesky free will?”

His lack of response makes her blood boil. It has come upon her slowly, steadily, this ever growing need. She wants to hear someone, anyone, grovel at her feet, beg for their lives. She wants to bring someone to their knees and feel it in her skin. 

Her serving girl cries too easily, making the tears worthless. 

“And what will your precious Emma do then?” Leaving his chest, her hand comes up to grip his chin. “When you’re heartless and at my command? Will you enjoy making her cry?”

But the smirk remains steadfast and the corner of her eye twitches. 

“You overplayed your hand, Regina.”

It’s instinct, that pinching, bringing her nails in tight against his skin, feeling the pressure and pushing against it until the surface breaks. He gives a small flinch, but it’s not enough. 

“Your Majesty.” She hisses in his face. “Like a good lapdog.”

“She doesn’t trust me anymore.” Like she hasn’t just made him bleed, like she hasn’t threatened his heart. “Anything I say or do now, she knows will come from you.”

When she doesn’t respond with anything more than a caress of a thumb through the blood on his chin, he smiles again. 

“You did do one thing right.” It’s a taunt, obvious and see through and she knows better than to listen to it, to play into him. “You showed me I don’t have anything to lose, I’m not fighting for anyone but me. So go on, take it.”

A spark of knowledge lights up in his eyes and Regina’s hand flexes because of it. She is useless to stop herself reaching down, tempted, needy, angry, and the tips of her very fingers press into his chest just left of his sternum. 

A flash of panic, too quick to appease her, sparks across his face. 

“I know you, Regina.” He meets her eyes, a thousand times more sure of himself now than he ever was as sheriff. “And you might think you have to play evil, but your heart’s just not in it anymore.”

Gratitude warms her voice as she hums, thankful for the edge he’s just created. 

“Who says I’m playing?”

It’s easy, too easy, to push the tips of her fingers through his skin. Knuckle deep in his chest, Regina watches his face contort as his body twists, blood pulses and thrusts against her fingertips, platelets and plasma rushing through the vessels in a desperate search for oxygen. 

“Em-ma!” He gasps it, unable to form the words coherently. “You… deal!”

His heart beats wildly, a hard thump, just out of reach. All she has to do is press forward those last few inches, grab hold of it and tug. It’s a strong beat, but then again it always was. Her Huntsman’s heart. 

But he is right. 

She did promise Emma she wouldn’t take his heart if she obeyed, if she did what was asked of her. As if Regina has ever kept her word once it became inconvenient to do so. As if people ever trusted her before. Sweat pools in all the corners of his face, his struggle clear. 

But her heart’s not in it. In this, too, he is right. 

And she hates him for it. 

“I won’t warn you again.” She prides herself on the sneer, the low cruelty of her voice that shows none of the turmoil. “Remember this.”

Her empty fingers pull out of his chest, a slick unpleasant sensation that makes them both grimace. 

“You…” This time when he lifts his head he is tame again, realisation and not confidence making him bold. “… miss her.”

He jerks when her hand lands on his chest again, unable to control the flinch, and it makes her smile all the way back to her eye teeth as she drums a pattern with her fingers.

“I killed you once, Huntsman, don’t think I won’t do it again.”

***

Emma wakes midway to orgasm. 

Hands push open her thighs, the weight of a body holds her down, a harsh rhythm, fingers are pushing and pulsing inside her and a mouth is sucking hard at her neck, her jaw, hot breath streaming across her skin as a voice sounds in her ear, encouraging, _That’s it, my pet, my good little pet_. 

When she opens her eyes, Emma gasps. 

The room is dark, all too familiar, and she is alone. 

Her body stills without her permission, her own right hand buried between her thighs, and she can’t stop the slow moan of disappointment. Her pulse races in her ears, a rapid thready beat and her jaw aches from clenching her teeth, her nipples push hard and tight against the cotton of her night dress, the muscles of her thighs tremble and her clit pulses with a throbbing, aching need. 

Forcing herself to relax, Emma widens her jaw to let out the tension, the skin between her eyes bunches as she decides to carry on. 

She’s already slippery wet, desire coating her fingers and it’s not hard to slide them up and down, spreading them over flesh. Her left hand slips up under her night dress, already bunched up past her waist, and flattens over her belly. She thrums a beat, a teasing little cadence as she slides it higher and higher still, until she can cup her right breast, scissor her knuckles around her nipple and tug. 

But it’s not working, not like it should, and the sharp hungry gasping she’d woken to, the fire spreading in her veins, dulls to a slow tempo. A pleasant little ache in her thighs and between, nothing more. 

No, she thinks, no. 

Scrunching her eyes shut, she tugs harder on her nipple, pinches until it makes her wince. It causes a weak little spark to trickle from breast to clit, but it’s still not enough. She clamps the pincer of her right finger and thumb around her clit and tugs, twists, pulling cruelly to make herself gasp. 

The sound escapes, dying off to a huff of frustration. 

Her left hand leaves her breast and she throws it up behind her head, fingers pushing at the headboard, sliding against the wood panelling, scrabbling for a hold among the detail and carving until her fingers grasp a slight outcropping. Sliding her fingers underneath it, she hooks them against the wood, holding on tight as she pulls her wrist down. 

Not even halfway fooling her body into believing the restraint, but tugging nonetheless, creating strain in her biceps and triceps, an attempt at struggle. 

Canting her hips off the bed, she slams two fingers back inside as hard as she can, biting her lip as she arranges the insides of her knuckles so that they drag on her clit at every thrust. She’s trying to will her blood to run that little bit faster, wishing it, forcing it, pushing as hard as she can. 

“…please…”

It comes out as a little whine, a whimper in the dark. 

Stretching her legs out as far as they can go, she plants her feet as wide as she can, her thighs shaking, imagining the coolness of shackles. 

And Emma hates it, curses it, refuses to back down. 

The longer she stays here, the easier it is to believe. Nearly a month in her parents’ castle, surrounded by friends and family alike, left alone to go through her day at her own will. Everyone is behind her, everyone supports her. They tempt her with pretty little ideals about freedom and battles and winning the war and she has almost started to believe them. 

Her head has started to hope. 

“… My Queen… please…”

But here in the bed, unable to complete the simplest of tasks, Emma’s body knows different. It waits, patient and obedient and loyal, refusing to cooperate. 

She feels the tear, hot and acidic, slide out of her eye and down the side of her face, pooling in the skin of her ear. A sob breaks out of her throat and Emma slumps in resignation, her limbs drawing back in close to her body, legs closing and knees draw up to her chest as she rolls over on her left side. 

Waiting for permission that just won’t come. 

***


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can do anything I like, I'm not the one bleeding out on the castle floor!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.   
> **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** Regina has never been led by rational thought.

*~*~*~*

When Emma first asks to do something with her, instead of the meek acceptance of other peoples’ suggestions, Snow is so surprised she almost forgets to say yes. 

The snow is thick on the ground, blanketing everything. It’s crisp and cold and footprints lie in sharp relief behind anyone who walks on it, thicker and more pervasive than anything back in Storybrooke. Snow herself thinks nothing of Emma’s request to learn how to make her own protective winter clothing. 

There is a caged feeling to Emma and it wouldn’t surprise Snow to find her one day pacing the floor like an animal at the zoo, she thinks it will be good for Emma to stretch her legs, go outside, even in the frosty climate. 

They talk as Snow shuffles through the back of her wardrobe, pulling out various odds and ends and discarded vests and leggings. Layers, she advises whole heartedly, lots and lots of layers. The most important thing, her advice, is the cloak. Thick and warm and heavy as a blanket around your shoulders, that’s the key to survival and travel in this weather. 

She chooses an old, but well-kept cape, cream coloured with red stitching and design. It’s simple enough to appeal to Emma and still be functional, to slip under Emma’s reluctance to accept anything too large and fancy. 

There’s a seam split along the side and Snow guides the stitches easily and tightly, trying very hard not to think about purple ribbon and white wool. 

“I think he’s forgetting.” Emma says as she holds up the woollen leg warmers paired with the leggings and makes a face at them. “Henry, I think he’s forgetting more and more about Storybrooke.”

Snow gives an answering little hum, not sure exactly where this is going or why Emma would make it sound like a bad thing. Henry is healthier here, happier, thriving. Everyone can see it. He’s eager to go outside, he has friends, he soaks in all the detail about the land, the history and the people in it. 

Like he was born for it. 

“I think that’s how the magic works, the curse.” Emma continues. “The longer we’re here, the more everyone just keeps forgetting. Like it never happened. Like it wasn’t real.”

The way Emma says it makes Snow frown, her forehead crinkling in confusion as she tries to put the sentence in order, into perspective. 

“The longer we’re here?” She repeats, looking up to meet Emma’s eyes, hoping she’s misread the situation. “You say that like… like you have a choice. As if you could go back.”

The set of Emma’s jaw breaks Snow’s heart. 

Of course, of course Emma is clinging to her old life. This life, this world, has been nothing but awful to her, in a way that other world wasn’t. As bad as she imagines Emma’s life being, given the brief history and few comments they’ve exchanged in regards to her past, she was comfortable there. That world had rules that Emma knew and lived by, protected herself with. 

But that world is gone. They don’t belong there, they never have, and Snow doubts they’ll ever be able to go back. 

She doesn’t want to be the one to force Emma to face up to that realisation. 

“I asked him, you know.” Emma gives a little huff, too bitter to be laughter, too cracked to be calm. “The first time I visited. I asked Henry if he would go back if he could.”

“Oh, Emma.”

This, Snow decides, this is the worst part of motherhood. Watching her daughter suffer and not being able to help or change it. At least they are at a point where Emma does not shy from physical attention. She can reach up and tuck an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear without her pulling away. 

“And he said yes, without thinking. He said he wanted her to curse us all again, no matter what, just to get back.” Emma leans into her hand, allowing just a second of a caress before she looks up and pulls away, there is hopelessness in her eyes, a sad little acceptance of facts that cannot be changed. “For me.”

It hits Snow brutally, that sharp truth. She knows, has known it since the purple cloud enveloped them, that while Emma is her daughter, loved and wanted and lost and mourned, Henry is Emma’s family. He is the one she truly fights for. He is the one that has fought for her. 

And, like the parents she searched for and found without knowing, the acceptance and belonging and security she craved, it’s slipping from her grasp all too quickly. 

“And now.” Emma shrugs. “He just wants me fight battles again. To stay here.”

It’s tempting to reach up and pull her in, to throw her arms around her daughter and hold on tight, but Snow knows that this level of contact will be unwelcome. That Emma really would struggle to push her away and Snow doesn’t think she’s ready for that. 

“I should have gone.” The words come suddenly, stronger and more forceful than Snow expects from Emma right now. “I should have kept driving that night, taken Henry and ran.”

Snow’s finger slips on a stitch. 

She does reach over then, pulls Emma into a stiff, awkward but not resisted hug. 

Her words strike fear into Snow, so deeply that she begins to watch carefully as Emma continues to make requests, becomes a good student learning all manner of different ways in this world. It’s when she watches Charming teach Emma how to properly ride a horse, how to lead in a full gallop through the crisp, cold snow, that Snow decides to stop biting her tongue. 

“You’re going to do it.” She confronts Emma the first chance they’re alone. “You’re going to take Henry and run away.”

The way that Emma’s eyebrows jump right into her hairline tells Snow that perhaps she’s missed the target. 

“Um… no.” Emma’s brows plummet to a confused crease in the middle of her eyes. “Henry loves it here. I wouldn’t…”

Their eyes meet and she’s not sure what Emma sees, but it makes her reach out and grab Snow’s trembling hand. 

“And it’s not like I can hop a bus to Connecticut myself, is it?”

It’s the closest thing Snow will get to reassurance that Emma isn’t going to pull anything stupid. She has to accept it, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of unease and dread as she watches Emma take control. 

***

_Emma can barely wait as she slips through the door and races up the stairs._

_She doesn’t bother to tread carefully, careless of the broken step and the shaky bannister, practically running as she opens the door to her room. Usually, she takes a pause in her thought processes to appreciate the sound of those two words: her room, but today she just doesn’t have time._

_Falling to her knees, Emma yanks open the bottom drawer of the rickety cabinet that was sanded down and painted a garish white with bright pink flowers. It looks like something for a five year old’s room, but she loves it because, like the room, it’s hers._

_After four months with the Masons, she’s still really the only one that comes in here, so she shouldn’t be surprised when she finds the dress at the bottom. She just can’t shake that constant distrust, the knowledge that everything not nailed down is temporary and able to be taken._

_It unfolds down around her as she stands, flicking her wrists so the purple material flutters around the tops of her thighs. Her critical eye notes that it’s perhaps a little too short, she has grown lately, but if there’s one thing she is familiar with it’s wearing ill-fitting clothes. There’s a rip in the seam under the right arm and the zip at the back sticks._

_But it’s a dress, the only one she owns, and tonight of all nights she’s going to look nice._

_It takes very little time to locate a safety pin or two, the easiest way to overcome the biggest faults of the dress, and she ends up spinning in awkward circles around the floor of her room as she tries her hardest to pull the zipper up her back with her right arm up and twisted behind her head._

_Eventually she’s dressed, legs like skinny stilts under the skirt, her belly pressing too tightly against the stretched and faded front of it, and the safety pins digging underneath her arm. There’s not a lot she can do about shoes, she certainly has nothing as fancy as Shelly Hummer at school, but a facecloth dampened with water buffs up her tennis shoes well enough._

_Her cheeks flush, just a little, when she thinks what her classmates would say if they could see her. Little Orphan Emma, they call her, aiming with the precision cruelty of children everywhere. Most days she can ignore them, has a lot of experience in ignoring them and others like them._

_If there’s one thing Emma has learned in her short little life it’s that nothing lasts. Not the yelling or the shouting or even the pain, certainly not the laughter and homes with enough food. And friends. Friends are the first thing to go._

_She doesn’t need them, is happy spending her lunches in the library reading old favourites, but today she feels jittery and nervous and her heart beats fast in her chest._

_Today._

_It’s a banner year, Fred Mason had said and the words had echoed around her head thudding and tattooing themselves, we’re going out to celebrate._

_And Emma has spent the last week squirming with expectation. Going out. To a restaurant. Granted, the Masons aren’t the best foster parents she’s ever had, but they are definitely not the worst. Far from it. It’s not out of the realm of possibility in her little hopeful mind that they’re going to take her out._

_She didn’t even eat lunch today, because all she wants to do is sit in a fancy chair, at a table with a table cloth, and read a menu. Her teeth leak saliva just thinking about it. The closest she has gotten to eating at a proper restaurant is dining in instead of going through the drive-thru._

_The bathroom tiles are off white, greyed just a little, with the beginnings of mould skirting the grout, but Emma doesn’t see this as she opens the vanity and pulls out the various jars and tubs and brushes. Becca Mason won’t mind, just this once, surely, if Emma uses her makeup._

_“Are you staying up there all night?” Becca’s voice yells, strident and harsh. “We’re leaving soon!”_

_And Emma’s hand shakes as she smears colour on her face, red on her lips and cheek, goopy black on her lashes, blue and pink powder on her eyelids._

_“Won’t be long!” She calls down, trying and failing not to let her voice rise into a screech of giddy joy. “I’m nearly done.”_

_Her hair sits in a messy braid, tufts poking out all over, and Emma uses water to smoosh them down again. She cut out the picture from a magazine of an actress she doesn’t even know the name of and slept with it under her pillow, trying for a week to get it right. She’s half happy with the way it’s turned out._

_“I’m ready!”_

_Emma skips down the stairs, practically shivering, and does not look up until she’s hit the landing. At first, her only reaction is confusion, not sure what she’s seeing. It’s awful, it’s too awful, and she cannot form words as she looks at the plump woman taking off her coat just inside the door._

_“About time.” Becca frowns. “Mrs Kozlowski is here. You know the drill. Eat your dinner, do your chores, be in bed by eight.”_

_Mrs. Kozlowski is an old overweight woman with a fierce expression and few words to go with them. She watches Emma on the nights when the Masons go out. Emma usually spends her time up in the small room she calls her own, ignoring the woman who likes to remind her how lucky she is to be here._

_Her tongue swells and begins to choke her, head shaking, Emma can feel the tears pricking in the corner of her eyes. And she hates it, hates it with a passion. She doesn’t cry._

_“And take off that ridiculous get up.” Fred Mason waves a hand at her. “You look like a clown.”_

_“But…” It’s the only word that comes out. “But…”_

_Emma refuses to cry._

_Not for them, not for anyone._

_“You heard them.” Mrs Kozlowski huffs at her after the door closes behind her foster parents. “Go clean up and come back to the kitchen.”_

_When she makes her way back downstairs, after scrubbing her face with a wet washcloth smelling of shoes until her skin tingled and her eyes stopped threatening to leak, Emma is still and quiet and sits sullenly in the wooden chair at the table._

_Mrs Kozlowski slams a plate down in front of her, bare and blank and she bites her lip as she imagines all the fancy meals she’s seen on the TV. She was hoping, maybe, they might have had chocolate mousse at the restaurant. It looks fluffy._

_A ladle appears in front of her and Emma watches the mound of congealed mac’n’cheese slide off onto the plate. She picks up her fork slowly and pushes the food around, no longer hungry. A heavy ball of disappointment weighs her tummy down._

_She should know better by now, she should. It serves her right for believing once… just once…_

_“Eat.” Ever cranky, speaking with a pursed, bitten off mouth, Mrs Kozlowski settles into the opposite chair without a meal of her own. “Why are you so grumpy?”_

_She takes the corner of one steaming noodle between her teeth, pushing her breath out to cool it before biting it off the fork. Her answer swirls around her head, too many words._

_“I just thought…” A sigh, heavy and deep. “… it was a banner year.”_

_“And so it is, child.” It comes out as a reprimand, an insult. “Mr Mason got salesman of the year again. What’s it to you?”_

_And Emma looks down at her plate, resolution not to cry weakening as she feels her chin quiver. She thinks of a small room she calls her own, the garish pink and white dresser drawers, the somewhat nice couple that have taken her in for nearly half a year now._

_Six months is the cut off, that is her experience, and she knows for sure now that the date is drawing near when her social worker will come calling for her and her suitcase. This time, she promises herself, this time she will not care. She will not let herself care, not this time, not the next or the next after that._

_Emma learns her lessons well, she is the only one she count on, the only one she has ever been able to count on._

_“I turned ten today.”_

***

She appears unannounced in a swirl of smoke. 

The expression on Maleficent’s face would be comical enough, even without the way she automatically flicks her wrist and shuffles the unicorn out of the room. It makes Regina laugh, loud and delighted. 

“Relax, Maleficent. I’m not going to hurt your glorified pony.” After a pause, she smiles. “Today, anyway.”

Her only response is a reproving glower and for a second she wonders if she made a mistake, but then Maleficent raises her eyebrow with a frosty smile and gestures to a nearby chair. It’s business as usual in the forbidden fortress. She settles herself, comfortably might be stretching it, but seated nonetheless. Her spine itches and her teeth clench, but she smiles. 

“Tell me, have you calmed down yet?”

And Maleficent lifts her glass, producing the most affected and put upon little choke of a cough Regina has ever heard. And she had a son with a penchant for trying to get out of school. 

“I still have a bit of a tickle.” Maleficent looks at her pointedly before taking a swallow of water. “Side effect of spending three decades breathing fire, you know.”

Well, no, she doesn’t, but she nods her head anyway and then takes a moment to look around. Maleficent’s castle is, as always, large and cavernous and empty. 

“That would be a no, then?”

They both smile, all teeth and sharp eyes. 

“Tell me, Regina, have you come to make good on your promise?”

It’s a taunt, Regina recognises it at once, but there’s also a hunger there that sets her teeth on edge, makes her knuckles tighten ever so slightly as she grinds her jaw beneath her smile. 

“Whatever do you mean?”

Shaking her head, Maleficent looks at her over her nose, like a teacher scolding a particularly slow pupil. 

“Don’t be obtuse. You know precisely what promise.”

Regina’s spine stiffens. 

“Have you grown attached?” Maleficent doesn’t wait for her to answer, jumping ahead and going straight for the jugular as she purses her lips and makes a tsk sound. “After all your warnings. I never would have pegged you the type.”

Regina cannot scoff fast enough. 

“Hardly.”

True to form, Maleficent pushes in. 

“Then again…” With a deliberate sweep of her eyes down to Regina’s toes and back up again, Maleficent adds a little more bite to her overly polite smile. “… come to think of it, you’re exactly the type.”

The air is humid, a hot and sticky uncomfortableness that is strange in the middle of the snow blanketing the land, but Maleficent has never been one to shy away from fires, creating steaming dungeons amidst the moist water caves underneath. 

“I still have use of her.” Even now, Regina feels strangely detached from the words. They taste wrong in her mouth, strange, alien and awkward to be speaking of Emma as a commodity like this to someone else. “That is all.”

It’s a foreign discomfort, the majority of her and Maleficent’s discussions revolve around trading something or another: spells, people, insults… power. Regina does not like this unfamiliar trickle that slides down the knobs of her spine, something she refuses to acknowledge as possessiveness. 

“I have use of her!” Briefly, so quickly that Regina thinks she might have imagined it, Maleficent’s mask waivers. “She gutted me, if you recall.”

Regina rolls her eyes, a cover for the sudden twisting distaste at the thought of this woman’s venom unleashed on Emma’s skin. 

“To end the curse that kept you trapped in the first place. You suffered naught, in fact you’re better off now you’re human again. I hardly think she wronged you.”

Draped in deep shimmering green, Maleficent doesn’t bother hiding the burst of laughter that spills from her lips. 

“You? Regina? You, of all people, are lecturing me on how I assign blame? That’s rich.”

She closes her eyes and takes a breath, because this is not why she’s here. The age old one up-manship between them should come as no surprise, she probably could have scripted the entire conversation before she came if she’d been so inclined. 

And yet… it’s leaving her on edge and jittery and Regina loathes the lack of self-control. 

“I didn’t come here to fight, Maleficent.”

Eyes glow at her over her drink. 

“Please, you only ever come here to fight, Regina.”

It might be possible to argue the point, but she has no desire and no energy to do so. The chair she’s sitting in is straight and uncompromising, making her mould her spine into an uncomfortable, unnatural line, yet Regina inhales and then feels herself relax as she breathes out. 

Her body sags and becomes heavy as she sinks into the metal frame. 

“Or did you need to be distracted?” Sharp as ever, Maleficent’s eyes cut across at her, pointed and direct. “Something amiss at your happy abode? Something… missing, perhaps?”

Picking up her goblet, Regina twirls her wrist in a slow, lazy circle, watching the liquid swirl inside. It rises and falls and if she tries she can picture waves, oceans of deep, ruby wine crashing in and around her. 

“No.”

She doesn’t trust herself to say anything further. 

“Well.” Comes the satisfied, smug voice. “If you have no need for her, why don’t you set her free?”

Coming here was a mistake, she knows it, has known it since she first materialized, because Maleficent is too ready to strike, poised for the attack and Regina is too analytical right now, too self-aware and just lonely enough to talk too much. The knowing gleam in the woman’s eye tells her that it’s not a secret, that the probing, insistent questions are definitely purposeful. 

The words are half way to her lips, _I tried_ , before she bites them back. Regina can only imagine what gleeful damage her friend will do with them, the conclusions that will be drawn if she admits that before she sent Emma away she’d tried to unlock the collar with no result. 

A magical contract is binding, more so than any legal one in the other realm, it can’t be broken by either parties. It can be ended, however, if both parties agree. And Regina had pulled at the collar with no result. She was willing then, which can only mean that Emma wasn’t. 

“I told you I’m not finished with her yet.” Before Maleficent can argue, Regina continues. “In fact, I believe Snow is more tortured now than when she believed her own life was forfeit, possibly even more than when she was snivelling on the floor clutching her beloved Charming while her world collapsed around her. It’s working. Why end it now?”

 _Because_ , her brain throws at her, traitorous and cruel, _Snow was right and you hate that and you’re tired of this, of all of it, and all you want is to have your little mansion and your office and your little blissful, ignorant town, a routine that never changed year after year and a son that was at least compliant if not loving. This land is not yours, it never was, you despise it as much as it ever despised you, and you have no place here, you’re not welcome and the role prescribed for you has lost its flavour, but you know nothing else._

“It’s amazing you can stand under the weight of all that self-denial.” 

The only amazing thing is that Regina has left herself so unprepared that she bares her teeth on instinct before she can cover. 

“I’m not in denial.” She corrects her posture, sitting up straighter. “I just don’t see the need to get all flowery. I’m scratching an itch, not pledging my troth.”

Across from her, Maleficent’s glee doesn’t wane, and Regina feels like nothing more than an amusement, a sideshow following some script she has yet to see. She doesn’t like it, does not like the way it crawls inside her and tugs, winding deep in her viscera. 

“You need to get out of that gloomy castle, Regina.” Maleficent glows with malicious cheer. “Get some fresh air and stop hiding yourself away like a frightened little mouse.”

Her neck rolls slightly, her head completing a wide circle as her eyes scan their surroundings. 

“You’re certainly one to talk, Maleficent.”

The eyes in front of her narrow and all pretence of civility drains away. If Regina sees no one at the winter castle, Maleficent sees even less here in her fortress and it has been that way for many years, much longer than Regina’s reign. 

“Very few people like to associate with me, dear friend, I’ve accepted that.” It’s the last line that hits home, as it always does. “But then again, I don’t need to be loved as desperately as you do.”

***

Emma is not an expert on many things. 

She knows a little bit about a lot of things, but not a lot about each of them. And at some things she fails spectacularly. There are two things she knows particularly well: running and surviving all by herself. Neither of those is an option anymore. Not here, not in this land, not with so many people looking out for, looking up to, looking after her. 

It began the moment she opened her door to find Henry looking at her as if she had the answers to his problems, it deepened when she clipped on that Deputy’s badge, cemented itself when she took on the role as Sheriff. And now, now she has family and friends and ties. It’s the ties that strangle her, that have always done so, she learned early on, quickly and harshly, that the less ties she had the easier her life would be. 

She had resigned herself to walking through her life not knowing anything remotely close to success or fulfilment, a knowledge as deeply ingrained in her sense of self as the truth that perhaps she didn’t even deserve it.

And she had her stretch marks as the uncontroverted proof of her biggest failure. 

But this, right here, sitting curled up on the hearth in front of the large fire with Henry in front of her as they play an intricately carved wooden game of checkers, this is almost redemption. 

This is almost worth everything. 

Warm voices float above and around them, an entire hall’s worth of people. She may never feel comfortable in such a crowd, may never really belong, but she is familiar with them now and loves at least a few of them. 

It’s easy to reach up and curl her hand into the lengthening hair at the nape of Henry’s neck and, for a moment way too brief, he lets it stay there. She can feel the damp sweat of his skin roasting from the heat of the flames before he shrugs her off, reaching forward to snap his piece over three of hers with a triumphant grin. 

They’ve called a truce, of sorts, and he no longer begs her to wage wars. 

He courts her, really, following her wherever he can and leading her wherever she lets him. He drains her like a greedy child, begging for the attention of the one parent he hasn’t lost. And she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

It’s a bittersweet sickly taste she gets as she watches him, aching, wishing a million times over things had turned out differently. More so now than ever happened back in Storybrooke, whenever Emma watches him her eyes drag out the shape of his ears, the crinkle of skin in the knuckles of his hand. 

She would like to say her life is a blur, in which a lot of her memories blend together in one long stream of forgettable happenings. But that’s not true. There are always moments, indelible moments that stick. Most of Emma’s would be better off forgotten, pushed down and out of conscious thought until her nightmares wake her sweating and screaming. 

But there are thirty seconds in Emma’s memory, too short and way too long, that she can never forget no matter how hard she tries. And she will always smell that astringent bleach and clinical alcohol mixed with sweat and blood, the muted sounds and voices of the doctors around her, the soft melody of a nurse’s voice… 

And that tiny little squirming bundle she’d held as her whole body ached and tears fell down her face, that impossibly small mouth stretching open in a yawn, followed by a cry, the two small beaded little eyes that reflected the lights above her head back into her face, all the soft, wrinkled, pouched skin that he’d still have to grow into. The velvety warm feel of him as she’d traced his miniscule earlobe and tickled the clenched fingers of his fist. 

Every so often, the harder she looks, she can see those features in the man-child in front of her, the same swirl of ear cartilage, the same clench of fingers. 

And her breath catches hot in her lungs. 

In just a few short weeks he will turn eleven. She has asked for very little in this land, in this castle, and she has the vague idea that she only has to say the word and these people will give her anything she asks. It did not stop the nervousness when she’d asked what they’d planned to do, how they’d plan to celebrate. 

She wants to do something big. 

An idea that Henry had shut down immediately, claiming to want nothing at all or, if he was forced, something quiet and unremarkable. He is not special, he claims, and there are birthdays being celebrated by children and adults alike that have not received as much attention. He doesn’t want to be singled out, not when there are children who haven’t celebrated a birthday in twenty eight years and he got to have every one of his. 

Sitting here, watching him, Emma has no words to describe how much she wants this, needs it, so much that it makes her ache. This will be the first of his birthdays she is present for and the deepest part of her wants that. She does not have the words to tell him that this, of all days, is usually spent drunk, making bad decisions and diving headfirst into bitter self-loathing. And this year will be none of those things. 

Well, at the very least she won’t be drunk. 

The conversations around them carry on, with them and without them, and the heat of the fire makes them heavy lidded and drowsy. Henry shifts from his upright posture to leaning on one hand, to sliding down and leaning his head in the crook of his arm, finally allowing Emma to rest his head on her outstretched legs, their game only half being played at this point. 

He’s too old for this, they both know it, but trailing her fingers through his hair feels good and she thinks they both need it. 

Emma looks up to catch a stolen moment, a private look between her parents, and it shudders right through her. In that second, privy to something secret, she understands exactly why their story is the stuff of legends, true love personified, centuries of folk lore and fairy tales, beloved by children and subjected to Disney animation. 

“There.” Red hums and Emma is only mildly surprised to find the woman sitting next to her. “That’s why.”

She looks down to see that Henry has succumbed to sleep and her fingers continue their trail, sweeping through his hair. 

“I wanted to slap him so many times.” Emma says quietly and then smiles at Red’s face. “As David.”

They both nod in solemn agreement. 

“I don’t think I ever understood why Mary Margaret kept going back. But now…” She shrugs and gestures to the couple across from them. “Just look.”

Red scoots further in front, lazily reaching out and resetting the pieces on the board. 

“You can’t fight that, my friend.” When Red looks over, Emma sees a wistfulness sweep over her face, a remembrance before she shakes it off. “Well, you never know. Maybe now that things have calmed down, they might try again.”

Confusion swarms over Emma and her brow furrows between her eyes, she looks back over at Snow and Charming and sees the smallest little sweep of touching fingertips. Realization comes like a hard hitting ball choking her in the throat. 

“What? They’re still young.” Red gives a small smile in sympathy and even though it’s aimed at her, Emma can tell it covers the three of them, the young parents and their adult daughter. “Tell me, what would you say to a newly married couple who’d had a miscarriage? Or a baby lost to the sleeping death?”

Emma’s hand reflexively curls further into the hair on the back of Henry’s neck. 

Logically, it’s not unreasonable, but she has barely processed the fact that her friends are actually her biological parents and their new role in her life. She knows, from what Snow has told her, from others, and the general inferences that she was desperately wanted and loved and hoped for. 

“Would you tell them that’s it? Tough luck? Nothing left to do?” Red doesn’t need to, but she follows through with the thought process anyway. “Or would you tell them to grieve and move on? Try again when they’re ready?”

Watching Snow fawn over baby Alexandra, watching Charming with Henry, seeing the pain in both their eyes whenever Emma’s history is mentioned, her life without them and theirs’ without her. It’s a painful thing, she knows they have missed out on something precious to them 

But she is grown, she has lived her life, she has a half grown son of her own and she has very definitely shut that aspect of her own life away. It is gone and she will not and will never revisit that time in her life. 

She has no idea what to do with the possibility of her parents with a new baby. 

The memory comes to her again, holding that small yawning body, and it hurts, physically hurts her with the possibility. The hard, vicious possibility of something so visceral, a sibling she watches grow from birth to baby to toddler to child, every development, every moment of its life and connected to her. 

“I know.” It comes out like a whisper, a confession. “I know. I just…”

Her brain skips over Red’s words ‘ _now that things have calmed down_ ’, unable to move past them. She wishes she had half of Red’s confidence, a fraction of Henry’s belief or Snow and Charming’s optimism, that she didn’t have to spend as many of her waking hours as she can desperately throwing herself from one activity to the next, learning how to sword fight and ride a horse and trek through snow and sew and reading book after book. 

Keeping herself busy, because any moment she has to sit still means her mind wanders, unable to stop itself as the collar around her neck gets heavier and heavier every day she’s here. Things haven’t calmed down, she has not been released, she is not free. 

There is no permanency here and each and every root that begins planting itself will be even more painful the next time she is yanked away. 

She wants to be here, she wants to want to be here, but she’s not sure that’s enough. 

It’s getting easier to pretend, to look people in the eye and smile and talk, to get up in the morning and do what’s expected of her, but that’s all it is, really. Pretend. Underneath it all there’s an insistent little scratching, an itch she can’t seem to reach or ignore. 

It comes in the middle of the night, in the form of memories and dreams and sometimes even nightmares, waking up alone and empty. 

Red knows some of it, Snow knows a little, Charming has pieced together a few clues, but Emma herself can’t understand the whole of it, doesn’t want to examine or even acknowledge the fact that she misses Regina. 

And the second that thought scurries through her head, Emma’s shoulders fall in defeat. 

In front of the fire, her son asleep with his head in her lap, in the middle of her family and friends and safety and love and warmth, Emma wants to go back. She wants to kneel at the feet of her Queen and let everything go. 

She can’t handle the stark truth of it, is nowhere near ready to process what it means. 

She should, she knows, be fighting tooth and nail for her freedom and, barring that, resenting her situation with a quiet, seething grace. She did not ask for this, did not want it, had never thought once in her life she would ever welcome someone taking that power from her. 

And yet there’s a form of peace in it, of giving everything over to someone else. 

The memory of pain isn’t even a deterrent anymore and she has no ability to understand why. It’s not a stranger to her, she has dealt with pain all her life in different forms, be it physical or emotional, but she has never welcomed it. 

Even as she tries to hold onto these thoughts, she knows that this is not all. There is much more to her time with Regina than pain, that it’s only a fraction of the whole, that there is genuine emotion on both sides. 

She feels it when she’s there, those times when even Regina can’t hide the expressions on her face, tenderness and possession and satisfaction, a glow that washes over the haunted look, the loneliness and despair that Emma has come to recognise. Hidden well, but definitely there. They struggle to the surface in moments she’s sure not even Regina is prepared for, those brief seconds of affection, the smallest little caress. Small doses, just enough to get her hooked, like an addict, enough to ensure Emma begs and bows and scrapes all for another, just one little taste of it. 

At times, Emma thinks Regina is needier than her, hungry and desperate for honest contact, but they don’t last long and Regina punishes her for every moment of weakness she shows. 

On one hand, Henry’s assertions are true. Regina has done vile things, awful, unforgivable, irredeemable things. This alone should fuel Emma’s resistance, her fight, make her the saviour people want her to be. 

But Emma knows that there are always two sides to every coin and the more she sees of Regina, the harder it is to ignore that there is a real person there. Someone who hurts and rages and has had terrible things done to her. She is also the mother of Emma’s son. It is clear that Regina loves Henry, Emma doesn’t even need to think on this, because she knows what it looks like when people don’t really love the children in their care. 

If that love is true, surely Regina cannot be purely evil. 

Emma’s brain is firing thoughts at her so quickly that she cannot seem to catch her breath. Henry thinks he wants her to kill Regina, had she much of a choice everyone else would probably want the same thing. If the contract was ever to be broken and her freedom restored, Emma knows she would be handed a sword without question. 

Like killing someone is as easy and as simple as cuffing them. Like being the sheriff of a small town is anywhere close to being a vigilante princess out for blood. 

As much as she loves these people, as much as she has accepted them as family, Emma doubts she would be able to lift a finger, let alone a weapon against Regina. Even if she had the desire for violence, she knows all it would take would be one firm command and she would be on her knees, willing to do anything. 

She should want to be here, but she knows she will not complain if and when she’s taken back. 

And it makes each and every moment here meaningless and false. 

Emma knows with perfect clarity the definition of the word limbo. She lives it, breathes it daily, and it covers her and stains her skin. 

She cannot live like this. She cannot join these people when she doesn’t have a solid footing. She would give everything for them, for Henry and Snow, for Charming and Red, she does give everything for them. And it’s not enough. It is never enough. 

Emma is breaking, she has been breaking for months, and the realization hits her like a physical blow to her abdomen that a breaking point is fast approaching that she will no longer be able to turn back from, that will irreparably scatter her into little pieces, disconnected and meaningless and helpless. 

“Red.” Her voice gives her away, the crack in it, even before her limbs start to tremble. “I can’t…”

Even as Red scoots back, body twisting towards the young, loving couple across from them, it is not fast enough. 

“James.” Emma hisses it, as quietly as she can and still be heard across the room with her panicked, terror cracked voice. “Take him! Please.”

Surprise and concern wash over everyone’s face and yet Emma cannot care right now, struggling not to push too hard, to scramble too desperately out from under her sleeping son as her father lifts him up. Her feet are awkward and clumsy as they try to find traction on the floor. 

It seems like forever before she can find her footing and push herself up to her feet, an eternity of struggling to hold it all in, not to burst out in ugly, messy tears in front of her audience. And yet she’s able to turn and run before Snow is even out of her chair, before she’s even called her name. 

Emma can’t live like this. 

There is only one thing left to do. 

***

If it’s supposed to be a surprise, it’s a poor one. 

Regina can feel Emma before she even gets to the gate. Irritation wars with disbelief and confusion and just a little bit of breathless expectation and she takes the time to settle herself on the arm chair by the fire, tucking her legs to the side as relaxed as she can, pick up a glass of wine, give orders to her guards and free her face of any expression. 

Footsteps herald them as they approach and Regina takes several extra minutes before she bothers to look up. 

“Your guest is ready to see you, Your Majesty.”

And Regina waves the nameless, faceless guard off with little thought, taking much more pleasure in the comical look of annoyed confusion that flickers over Emma’s face at the dismissive title. With another sip of wine washing over her tongue, Regina allows herself a moment of warmth behind the glass before she sets it down and stands. 

“So she is.” Glancing all the way down and then up again, her eyes trail over Emma’s body. “And what a sight she makes.”

Serviceable as they may be in this weather, for the arduous ride between castles, Emma’s clothes do nothing but remind Regina of Snow and she has to tamp down on the sudden flush of spite that squirts deep in her gut. 

“If I remember correctly, Emma, I threw you out of this castle.”

Green eyes flash to hers, resolute behind the nerves. A rather interesting look of intent comes over Emma’s face and Regina bites the tip of her tongue. Yes, some extended time away has given Emma back some spine. 

“We need to talk.” Emma’s words are strong and steady, spoken without waver, but Regina’s raised eyebrow and expectant silence makes the intent behind them trail off, dying slowly in the air until Emma sighs. “My Queen.”

The words cause an unexpected flash to sizzle along her spine, through her nerves and all the way to the edges of her skin. She bites back the next breath, caught suddenly by the throb of desire that pulses deep down low in her abdomen. 

“Talk?” Her vocal chords tighten in response, thankfully making her words come out hard and distant. “I don’t recall that being part of the contract.”

She circles Emma then, slow and deliberate steps and she half expects the woman to turn with her, maintain eye contact and not leave her back exposed. Emma trembles as she stands, but doesn’t move and Regina lets her eyes devour the struggle to stay still. 

Yes, she thinks as calm oozes through her, yes this.

Standing behind Emma, she leans in close to an earlobe, sending hot breath over skin that pimples in tiny little gooseflesh. It’s enough to stir a thick, eddying hunger that she refuses to acknowledge. Still Emma does not move or turn around. 

“I do remember _obedience_. Also telling you to leave and live elsewhere. And yet here you are, with no consequence to speak of. Do you know what that tells me, Emma?”

Regina’s fingers trail through the feathery down of Emma’s cloak collar, running over the material underneath until she reaches the front of Emma’s neck, finds the tie and pulls it. The thick cloak slithers to their feet and for a brief second, just a reminder, a little nudge, Regina fondles the gold collar sitting low on Emma’s throat. 

“It tells me you’re not here to fight or demand or even ask for lenience.” From her vantage point so close to Emma’s face, she can see a cheek, the profile of a nose, the fluttering span of eyelashes and the parting of thick, red lips. “You’ve come to beg me to take you back. Again. Poor little lost girl.”

Before Emma can respond, Regina flattens her hand on Emma’s shoulder and pushes down. Hard. There is a moment of resistance, a second of struggle that surprises her, before Emma bends, capitulating as she lowers herself down to her knees. 

Biting her lip, Emma does glare up at her then, twisting her neck back for no reason she can see other than to give Regina the pleasure of seeing the broken defiance shooting from her eyes. 

“And you want what? To be my pet?” Rounding to the front, Regina laughs. “What need do I have for a pet who can’t remember the simplest rules?”

It’s the easiest little wave of her wrist, familiar and well-practiced, before all the pesky clothes are gone and Emma kneels there, shivering and naked and deliciously angry. 

“No!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Regina drips false concern as she pouts and presses her hand flat to her chest. “Did they have some special meaning, those rags? You’ll get them back, don’t worry. Have we gotten to the grovelling part, yet?”

It’s tempting, too tempting, to lean down and touch the skin bared to her, but Regina remains upright. Now, this very moment, it matters most of all. 

“I came…” Though she’s struggling to find the words, Emma is not struggling to say them. “… to talk.”

Regina makes a show of caressing her own chin in thought. 

“Well, let me think about _that_ for a moment.” And then she snaps her fingers. “No.”

A cloth gag winds around Emma’s mouth, forcing itself between her teeth, and Emma spares only a second to glare, before reaching up and pulling the item away, scratching to release it from her skin. 

“Stop it!” Emma cries, angry now. “Enough. If we’re going to do this, we need boundaries, we need…”

And Emma is right, really. Enough is enough. Regina placed her hand on the top of Emma’s head, lets her fingers fall into the divots of the intricate braid that winds around the scalp, she walks the pads of her fingertips over and down to the free flowing tresses at the back. 

It’s a wrench, hard and fast, as she pulls Emma’s head back and it leaves the woman panting through clenched teeth. 

“You seem to be under some kind of misunderstanding, my dear, broken, subservient little pet. You’re not my _girlfriend_. You’re a thing. A possession. To be used. And discarded. Whenever I please.”

The stubborn set of Emma’s jaw does nothing but remind Regina of Storybrooke, each and every time she’d tried to push her away and the woman had only come back more determined than ever. But her eyes, oh, her eyes tell a different story and Regina smiles, pouting her lips as she leans in. 

“Oh, I know.” She’s so close it’s almost a kiss, but she draws back. “The magic that bound your collar can only be done on the willing. But, that’s a formality really. You never had a choice, just like you never had a chance.”

She can see the struggle. The newly reformed Emma wants to fight, wants to push Regina away and stand, but there’s a larger part of Emma, ingrained, that Regina has put there in the last few months. And that part is winning, Regina can practically taste it, can see the way Emma’s body is letting go of the tension, the way her breath evens out and her lips part on an exhale. 

The way her nipples tighten and push forward.

“Tell me, Emma, did you enjoy life at your parents’ castle?”

Her lips automatically form a positive, but her eyes crinkle and her pupils shift to the side, giving her away. The flush that spreads over her face, a flood of colour that sweeps from her neck up over her chin and cheeks, indicates that Emma knows how transparent she really is. 

“It’s good.” She insists. “It’s better.”

The words ‘than here’ don’t need to be said. Regina arches a brow as she softens the grip on Emma’s hair, smooths her fingers over the nape of her neck instead. She savours the sight of the smallest twitch, an involuntary reflex, Emma leaning into the caress. 

“But…?”

There is struggle in the silence, momentary stiffening in posture before Emma relents, body relaxing on the exhale. 

“I’m always on edge.” Comes the admission, reluctant but there nonetheless. “They want so much. It’s exhausting, pretending all the time. I want…”

Regina licks the roof of her mouth as her fingers tightening as she presses the fingernails of her left hand into her palm, hard enough to hurt. 

“What?” And she wishes her voice wasn’t so breathy. “What do you want?”

“I want to belong there.” Emma’s shame crawls red up her neck and cheeks and ears. “But I don’t. Not like this.”

Of course not. That was part of the plan, after all, another piece of the puzzle falling right into place. It’s strange that whenever her plans work out exactly as she’d planned them, the thrill of victory is nowhere to be seen. 

She does reach out then, touching Emma’s bottom lip softly with the pad of her right thumb. 

“Like what, dear?”

And Emma sighs, a gust of warm air over Regina’s thumb. 

“Yours.” The word seems to jolt through them both, though it’s not unfamiliar between them. “You could bring me back at any time, I… I can’t relax, not knowing, I have no say, it’s… it’s killing me.”

That’s not it, not entirely, and Regina sees another truth under the surface. It’s tempting, Emma is temptation personified as she kneels there, naked, open and willing and honest. Snow and Maleficent’s words run through her brain in an endless, jumbled loop. And if Regina had any brains at all she would end it now. 

But Regina has never been led by rational thought. 

“You want this.” It’s easy, too easy to bend one knee and bring herself eye to eye with Emma, reach forward and grab her chin to hold her steady. “You want me.”

The answer is written in the way Emma’s entire face closes up. 

“You poor, broken little girl.”

Regina swishes her hand and Emma is picked up and tossed across the room, slammed into the wall and she watches, drinks in the horror as the stone comes alive and wraps itself around her limbs, her torso, holding her still. 

It is not far, perhaps twelve long strides, until Regina is standing in front of her. Emma struggles against the granite holding her prisoner, a futile attempt and they both know it. Regina eyes the pouching of skin against the stone, where it presses in just enough to be felt.

One band sweeps in across the top of Emma’s chest, across her shoulders, one over her ribs and another lower on her abdomen, four more hold her limbs in place. It’s solid and unbreakable and beautiful. 

Regina trails a finger across the delicate skin in front of her, a line across Emma’s breasts, fingernail catching on the nipples that perk up.

“You don’t know.” In contrast to her actions, Regina’s voice is ice. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Emma is trembling and naked and tethered to the wall. Her skin gleams, just a little, a glow from the heat of the fire attacking the chill from her trek across the land, otherwise she is pale. Regina cannot stop herself taking a mental note to include outdoor activities in the warmer weather, wanting Emma’s skin tanned and supple. 

Before she reminds herself that this entire thing is making her weaker, not stronger, and the sooner she ends it the better. 

“Please.” Emma’s voice cracks and she must be completely unaware of the effect of that simple plea or she would not push Regina further. “My Queen.”

With a shudder she hopes cannot be seen, but knows it probably is, Regina releases Emma’s limbs. Her breath comes fast and shallow as she leans her head forward and rests her forehead on Emma’s. From this point, she can see lines and curves that make up the woman’s face, the line of her nose, the hills of her cheeks, the hint of red that would be her lips. 

“If you want me, Emma, show me.”

She can feel, rather than see the confusion. 

The puff of air that Emma releases is tinged with peppermint and lemon and salt, a heady mix of the concoction Regina remembers distinctly, years of scrubbing her teeth with the grainy mix have embedded it in her brain. She closes that avenue of thought down quickly, not wanting her history to intrude on this moment. 

“Reach down.” It comes as a shaky breath, this order. “Reach down and open yourself up. Offer me what’s already mine.”

The only sounds that can be heard are their breaths and the barest scraping of skin on stone, Emma’s arms move down and between them. Without looking down, without checking to make sure her order was followed, Regina bends her face forward and closes her mouth over Emma’s. 

She kisses to prove a point, hard and a little too fast for Emma to catch up, Emma breathes into and from her mouth, sucking hard enough to get sufficient air that Regina can practically feel all the oxygen molecules rush from her mouth and over her teeth. 

Planting her hands directly to either side of Emma’s face, she continues, not giving the woman enough time to recover, sliding fast from her mouth to the side, sucking on Emma’s right neck, under her ear and down further along the tendons of her throat. 

There are two firm, straight, rigid limbs pressing against her torso, Emma with her hands shoved between them, all the way down between her legs, and Regina can feel the line of them across her belly. 

“Are you wet for me, Emma?” She breathes into the hollow of the throat at her lips. “Are you ready?”

A moan of agreement is her answer and it makes her grin against the flushed skin in front of her. 

“Good.” She licks the indent, a small triangle right in front, between the collar bones. “That’s how I like you.”

The bands of stone around Emma’s torso are perhaps an inch wide, strong enough to hold her, but not so wide that they hide Emma’s body from Regina’s hand as she takes her right arm down, trails her fingers over the curves, all shoulder and breasts and hips. 

Until she can drag her fingertips over the front of Emma’s thigh and past the knobs of knuckles in her way, Emma’s hand still obeying her orders, and before she even gets there she can feel heat radiating out from between Emma’s legs. 

She is wet and warm and they both groan as Regina lightly touches the pad of her middle finger to folds of flesh, tracing Emma’s entrance all the way to the front and back down to the left, lightly, teasingly, feeling the shift of hips as Emma struggles to stay still. 

Her wrist slides between both of Emma’s, pushing in as she slips two fingers straight up into clenching muscles. The resulting groan of approval makes Regina’s mouth run dry. 

“Oh.” She purrs. “Oh, you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Emma nods frantically above her. “Yes, My Queen.”

It’s easy, too easy to play Emma like a finely tuned instrument. Thrust after thrust as Emma keens against her, trembles as she tries to stay as obediently still as possible. Regina’s arm slides back and then forth, sawing in a relentless pattern, and the result is a set of beautiful, needy whimpers, sounds that are almost pleading, begging. She adds a third finger and crooks them all. 

“Did you touch yourself?” She asks, demanding, as she looks back up to see Emma bite her top lip and nod. “I bet you did. Did you let yourself come?”

Frustration and need pours off Emma, from the clenched jaw and the teeth capturing her lip, to the frantic flicker of eyes left to right as she tries to read Regina and the jerks of her hips trying to match and encourage Regina’s hand. 

“No!” It squeaks out of Emma’s mouth, hurried and bitten off. “No, My Queen, never.”

And Regina knows the truth of it, can feel it in the hungry way Emma is responding, body begging without words for a much wanted release. It’s almost violent, the shaking, and it snaps something in Regina. She knows Emma has tried, can feel it in the air, knows without hesitation that Emma has rubbed herself raw in frustration and yet her body refused to yield. 

So great is her hold over the woman. 

She wants to call this success, wants to revel in it, and she would have at one stage. But even now her own brain refuses to allow her this, it hinges instead on Snow and Maleficent and their words, their damning ugly words and if Emma is both desperate to please and to find release, Regina is just as much desperate to give that release and to prove both those women wrong.

She stands up straighter, never stopping the relentless push and pull of her fingers twisting up inside, and looks Emma in the eyes. 

“Good girl.” As she says it, Emma’s mouth opens wide at the same time as her eyes, a startled expression, a shock to the system, and Regina relents. “Come for me now.”

It’s heavy and sudden and instantaneous, the thick pearly gush over her hand, sliding against her knuckles and over the heart, love and life lines of her palm. 

“That’s it, Emma.” She licks the edges of Emma’s mouth, the very corners, feeling the grateful moans that echo in her ear. “I want you to come as many times as you can.”

And then, as Emma is shaking and keening slightly, body undulating in its stone prison, Regina kneels down, laying her left forearm against Emma’s, trapping them against her torso.

She does not need love, she does not need affirmation. She is Regina, she has ruled lands and mens and women’s hearts, she has run a town, she has broken many people in her life, destroyed those that dared defy her, taken her vengeance where it was sorely needed. She is not afraid, she is not lonely. And she most definitely does not need this woman above her. 

That Regina Mills is feared and obeyed is enough. 

Emma has spread herself far enough that Regina need only lean in, tilting her head back and thrusting her chin forward to get exactly where she wants, to taste the heady, musky come, to slide her tongue around her own fingers and along the lines of Emma until she licks the small, taut bud, flicks it firmly. 

That Emma comes again, at Regina’s insistence, with and only at her permission, should be enough. 

“Again.” She hisses as she takes Emma’s clit between her teeth. “Now.”

And above her, Emma cries out, part pleasure part pain. 

She is hers, there is no question, Emma is hers, and it leaves her aching and frustrated and empty. 

“Please.” Emma begs it, even as her legs spread wider, feet planting themselves involuntarily on Regina’s back, walking up her spine. “My Queen, please.”

It’s a thrumming, heady pulse against her tongue, and Regina can practically visualise the beat of Emma’s heart, strong and violent and passionate, demanding cessation from this onslaught. Regina’s forearm presses harder on Emma’s wrists. 

“Now.” She demands again, giving a small jerk against Emma’s arm, a reminder and a threat. “My pet.”

Extending her tongue, Regina fucks her with it hard and steady, using her entire body to push forward, to rock back and forth, again and again until she feels Emma break a little, hears the moan that is no longer muffled. 

“Tell me.” She gasps, leaning back. “Now.”

Emma gives a small cry. 

“Yours.” Comes the answer, quick and automatic and perfect. “Always yours.”

It’s what she wanted, but it makes her see red. 

“You fool.” She hisses as she pulls back, slides her fingers right out of Emma and stands, stepping away. “You have no idea.”

The confusion is complete, swarming over the breathless, panting face of Emma in front of her and all Regina wants to do is slap it. Swing her hand back and slap Emma so hard across the face she leaves marks, bright red finger shaped marks across her cheek. 

Because it’s not Emma against the wall, it’s never been Emma. 

Her arm does swing in a wide arc, up across and down, but not to slap. She’s too far away for that, never making contact. But the energy lies between them, sings from Regina’s fingertips and sails through the air, landing on Emma’s skin like a blade and a sharp cry rends the air. 

And Regina watches as a line of red crosses over Emma’s stomach. 

“You foolish, stupid, pathetic woman.” Her arm rears back again. “You don’t want me.”

It’s a compulsion she cannot stop herself giving in to, even as she watches the second line split Emma’s skin, above her navel this time. Another swallowed scream gurgling up. 

“This is what you’re asking for!”

A third. 

“Please, My Queen. No.”

It’s Cora’s voice in her head, insidious, drowning her in all the ways she can and will fail, all the disappointments she will ever add up to. It is Leo, ignoring her with one hand and taking with the other, always taking and never once giving back. It is Snow, holding her up to some impossible ideal while never trying to live up to the same. 

It is everyone and it is no one and Regina cannot even breathe let alone tell one from the other. 

“… please… stop…”

“Is this what you wanted, Emma?” She steps forward. “Is this what you came to beg me for?”

Fear slashes hard and unforgiving across Emma’s face, as her hands grab uselessly at the blood that is seeping down her belly. Her head is shaking back and forth in frantic denial. 

And when Daniel dies again, and again and again and again in her mind, Regina is forever pushed back and down and away and against the wall, trapped and useless and worth only what others could take. 

“Are you still wet for me, Emma?”

“I want…” Emma’s head lolls forward, eyes rolling. “… stop…”

And Regina is gasping. 

“It never stops.”

With one wave of her hand, Emma is gone. 

And Regina blinks to an empty room, the blessedly quiet room, suddenly void of all the static that had blinded her. This is it, she thinks, the end. 

This is what she has been working towards, she just hadn’t realized it. 

“And let the battle begin.”

***

Unable to sit still, Snow’s fingers drum out a rhythm on the table in front of her. 

She is wound so tightly she doesn’t think she can think straight at all, angry and scared and nervous. And yet, sitting here, she’s fairly sure this is the closest she has been since they got back. 

“I know.” She says, even though she doesn’t. Not really. “I know you’re reluctant to get involved.”

Even though now is the perfect, the _only_ time to get involved. In front of her face, blue wings flutter. 

“Now, Snow…”

One glare halts whatever the Blue Fairy had been about to say. 

“But you are involved.”

It seems mere months before that the curse was struck, Snow’s brain still likes prompting her that way even though they all have decades worth of memories to tell them different. They also have these memories to underline the fact, months, not long at all, where she once considered this fairy her friend. 

“Like it or not, you’re involved.” Snow’s hand flatten on the table, palm down in an effort to keep them there. “You owe me. More than that, you owe Emma.”

Another sympathetic flutter. 

“What happened to Emma was tragic…”

And that’s it, Snow cannot take the sweet, sickly voice another moment longer, not when it comes to this. 

“It was unnecessary.” She hisses through clenched teeth. “I could have been with her!”

But now is not the time to pick those scabs, to wake up these sleeping dragons. Not here, not now, though it is coming, she can feel that confrontation rolling along in her chest, gathering motion. Snow feels it like a snowball growing larger with every minute, and she wishes that she didn’t. 

It seems strange, obscene somehow, that this small fairy who had been so inconsequential for most of her life and a benign old carpenter she had barely known other than to look upon him as a kindly grandfather type in her kingdom have accomplished what over a decade battling Regina had not. 

They have made her bitter, taught her how to hold a grudge. 

She does not like it, this side of herself, but she cannot part with it now. 

“You will help us.” Snow demands, squaring her shoulders and giving no avenue for refusal. “You will do everything you can to help us, regardless of your overall plan for my daughter. Is that clear?”

The wide eyed surprise at her words confirms for Snow that there is an element of truth to what Rumplestiltskin had said. 

“Yes.” The Blue Fairy finally capitulates. “We will help. You have my word.”

That settled, one of the many weights finally unburdened, Snow closes her eyes to breathe for a count of two and then opens them as she turns to her left, reaching out her hand. 

“Red.”

It comes out as a question, a reluctant whisper, and she knows that she doesn’t have to elaborate. This woman is her friend, at one time her only friend, and they have shared many things. She does not know if Red understands this, can ever truly realise how important she was and is to Snow. And how much Snow hates herself for having to ask. 

“I know you haven’t… not since we got back… but…”

If there is a point that stretches their friendship too far, surely this is it. 

But Red covers her hand on the table, warm fingers and a soft touch as her free hand rises to her throat and unconsciously fingers the ties around her neck, her bright red cloak. 

“I’ll do it.” Red gives a determined little nod. “For Emma, anything.”

Snow squeezes the fingers between her own. It was a big enough ask back then, no matter how Red liked to play it off, but now it’s a thousand times more difficult, now that Red has Ruby’s memories and ideals and sense of justice. 

Grumpy and Happy heft their pickaxes without waiting to be asked and Grumpy’s thumb slides over the blade in a clear promise. Snow nods her acknowledgement and gratitude to them and their five brothers. 

“I think we’re set.” Charming says to her right, sliding his hand in her. “We’ve got the horsepower and we’ve got most of the armoury we’ll need.”

She looks over to Ella, who sits bouncing Alexandra on her knee. There is a risk in this, far more than just Snow or Snow’s immediate family, but Ella merely smiles a grim little encouragement. 

“I’ll be fine.” She insists. “I’ll stay back with… those who need to.”

A last minute change of words, but clearly a wise choice. He’s too polite to make a fuss, but Henry won’t like being referred to as a child, especially when it means being discounted so early on. 

It’s a tense little circle as they sit there, the enormity of what they’re preparing weighing heavy on each of them, the sharp truth that this is the final precipice between planning and acting. 

“Nnnng…”

The atmosphere is loaded and crackling, so much so that Snow is the only one to hear the soft groan coming from the far right corner, the only one to look up as she bites her lip. She’s out of her chair before the sound gets louder, before it has a chance to make itself clearer and known to the other people in the room. 

On his knees before the small make shift gurney, Henry looks up in apology. In his left hand he holds a cloth, damp with the water he’s been using to brush over the pale face in front of him. His right hand is resting on the shoulder, obviously trying to keep her down. 

“Snow.” Emma finally manages to form the words as she tries to lift herself up, push herself up by her hands to half sitting, such a sudden movement after being out of it all night. “You’re planning… a war?”

There is nothing to say, really, certainly nothing appropriate to the situation. Snow notes with worry the way Emma gentles her torso, the flicker of pain across her face, and the betrayal. 

“Yes.” She doesn’t even bother denying it as she steps closer and kneels down, pushing her own hand on Emma’s shoulder next to Henry’s. “It’s time.”

Maybe it’s the combined effort, maybe it’s the look in Snow’s eyes or even the pain, but Emma stops fighting and lets herself be lowered back down. 

“Noo…” It’s a soft, small, broken little wail out of her daughter’s mouth. “You can’t.”

Even though she is lying down, Snow can see the tension in Emma, the gathering of herself and her strength. She knows the stubbornness that comes from Emma, that pushes the woman where others would surely give up and she knows that at any moment the real argument will begin. 

“Calm down. You’ve had milk of the poppy, you’ll still be groggy.” Snow says, a small order, before Emma can even bother trying to get up. “Doc finished stitching you up last night and you don’t want to go ruining all his hard work, do you?”

Friendly, soft, perhaps a little firm, Snow’s words sound like a gentle mother giving advice, but by the glint in Emma’s eyes, she can tell that neither of them have missed the demand, the threat in them. 

Snow has finished playing nursemaid. 

She can feel the air pulsate in the room, she knows how many people are behind her, next to her, watching and waiting, but this is a moment, a confrontation that needs to happen in private. 

“Can everybody leave?” It’s softly spoken and she doesn’t pause to ask herself who can hear, just assumes that they all will, like they have always done. “I need a moment alone with my daughter.

Nobody questions and nobody tries to disagree, in fact Snow would bet good money on the fact that they’re probably all relieved at the suggestion. She wraps her fingers around Henry’s small wrist and squeezes, a reassurance as much as a promise. As they all shuffle and file out of the room, Emma does not break eye contact with her. 

“You can’t do this.” Emma says, once they’re alone. “You can’t…”

“I can do anything I like.” Snow insists. “I’m not the one bleeding out on the castle floor!”

It’s a low blow, but Snow is beyond the point of caring right now. She has played the submissive carer to Emma’s weakness much too long and they have only suffered for it. Especially Emma. 

Stunned into obedience, Emma lies back down and bites her lip as she looks around and settles her hands, one by one, on top of her chest. 

“So she sent me back.”

And Snow forcibly bites down on the flash of anger, knowing how useless it would be right now, how easily it might still come to the surface and spill out over both of them, this stagnant hours old panic that has been swirling inside her since Emma appeared. 

“For now.” She says bitterly, but not unkindly. “Until the next time she’s bored. What happens then, Emma? What happens next time she wants to hurt someone? She’s just going to keep dragging you away and sending you back here like this?”

“She didn’t…” But Emma closes her eyes, hiding the flush of shame that Snow sees anyway. “I went to her.”

It bubbles, that frustration, that anger, that useless helplessness she can never abide. 

“It doesn’t matter! You don’t get it, do you? You can’t… we, we can’t live like this. My god, Emma, do you have any idea what it did to Henry to see you dropped in the middle of the floor, bleeding and unconscious? Do you?”

Ashen already, Emma’s face pales. 

“Did he…? Was I…?” Emma stumbles over the words, reluctance and mortification blocking her throat. “Was I dressed?”

Snow bites her cheek. Hard. 

“Yes.” She manages, trying desperately to rid her mind of the picture Emma had just painted, the confirmation of a dark little suspicion she’d tried to bury all night. “She at least clothed you before she dumped you.”

 _She_. Snow is beyond the point of even being able to say her name without dissolving into bursts of hysteric, incomprehensible anger. 

“Please.” It’s too weak, too painful to hear Emma’s voice break like this. “Please don’t do this… not now.”

Reaching across to brush a stray lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear, Snow bends down to plant a soft kiss in the middle of her forehead. 

It’s an odd action, given the undercurrents that threaten to pull them both under, given their history, given the thought of the million times Snow never got to do this during Emma’s life, the billion times Emma probably wished for a mother to do it. 

“You don’t have a choice anymore, Emma.” Her words come out clear and precise and unwavering. “This is happening.”

Snow feels a hand wrap around her wrist. 

“But…”

And she can do nothing but shake herself free, sitting back on her heels. 

“But nothing. It’s over, it’s decided.” She can see a desolate look on Emma’s face and almost wants to turn away. “I should have done this the day you came back to us, I should never have let you go back. The reason, the _only_ reason it’s gotten this far is because you didn’t want us to do anything. But I don’t care anymore, Emma, you can hate me all you like after this, but it’s what I have to do.”

“Please.” There’s sweat glistening on Emma’s brow and Snow’s breath catches, automatically wanting to call Doc back. “Just…”

“You listen to me, Emma, because I will not say it again.” Snow grabs the hand around her wrist, holds it in hers. “I know you want to do this to save everyone, I know you think you have to. And maybe you’re not used to fighting so hard for yourself, maybe you’ve never even had anyone fight for you before, sometimes I think you feel you don’t deserve any better. But you do. Everything has changed now. Do you get it? We are here. You have us, all of us. And whatever you are willing to do for us, we will do twice as much for you.”

She ignores the brightness of Emma’s eyes, knows that no matter how many times it has happened recently, it is not something she wants acknowledged. 

“You deserve to be fought for, Emma, and whether you want it or not that’s what we’re going to do.” One last squeeze of the hand in hers and Snow begins to stand. “Now I’m going to go get Doc, let him check you over. The rest of us have details to plan.”

“Wait…” 

Emma calls her and Snow thinks about stopping, about turning around, but her resolve can only hold out so long, not when she’s spent the last eighteen hours awake and working with Doc, unable to leave Emma’s side until she’d been declared out of the woods, until they were all sure she’d be okay. She hasn’t rested yet, she doubts she will be able to until all of this is over. 

All of it. 

“Snow…”

As she reaches the open door, Snow is prepared for a lot of things, her limbs are heavy and weighted down by the excess adrenaline that is now plummeting. She’s going to drop and drop spectacularly. She thinks Emma might beg to stop this, might plead for her help, and she knows she’s reaching the point where she will give in, give Emma anything. 

She does not expect the door to slam in her face. 

“What, Emma?” And when she turns around, several strands of Emma’s hair are floating by her face, and her expression… her expression is deadly. It takes the words right out of Snow. “I…”

She has never seen Emma look so determined or forceful before. 

“At least let me lead the charge.”

***


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps this time they will be more or less equals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.   
> **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.   
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** "I'm okay. Look at me. Nothing's going to hurt me."

***

There is something rhythmic, almost hypnotising, about the rocking of the horse underneath her. 

If she concentrates, Emma can hear each separate little _whumph_ of her horse’s hooves hit the damp earth below her. Winter is on the way out, finally, and this late in the day the frost is non-existent and the ground is blanketed by sodden, decomposing leaves. 

It counts out a steady beat, in tune with the bunching and release of equine muscles against her thighs. She has never thought about it, but the hoof-falls, like human steps, are a series of repeated movements, one after the other, and yet the result is an unbroken glide. 

She needs to keep count of the steps and if her mind wanders, if she lets it expand past her own immediate circle of personal space, each falling hoof gets lost in the multitude of those around and behind her. And if she loses that, she loses sight of herself. 

Hundreds of horses, some carts, people on foot, spread out in an increasing fan behind her. She imagines that those at the back are trudging through nothing less than several feet of mud churned up by those in the front. 

Emma’s spine is straight, but fluid, and she feels herself undulate with the movement, as much as the tight bandages wrapped around her torso allow. Her father is a more than capable instructor and she feels comfortable up here, much more at ease than the first time. They are moving steadily and slowly, a cavalcade of horsemen, moving inexorably forward. 

Her blinders are on and she cannot remember being more focused than this, cannot allow the alternative. 

She has made this trip twice before, but never at this magnitude and never with an entire land of people looking to her for guidance. 

Emma Swan, leader, flag bearer, _saviour_. Her shoulders itch with the mantle. 

A dapple grey beast sidles up to her, long nose coming into sight at her right and Emma blinks. Before the horse’s head is fully in sight, well before the neck and resultant rider comes into view, she knows it is Snow. Their pace doesn’t change and they ride for several minutes together. 

“Are you sure?”

Her mother’s question is not unexpected, but it’s also not new.

“Yes.”

They are perhaps two thirds of the way to Regina’s castle. People are becoming nervous. What set out as an eager crowd, voices high with the exuberance of finally getting the green light had soon turned sombre as reality seeped into the group conscious. 

They are moving against the _Evil Queen_ and all of their memories are full of the danger that provoked. 

Emma is aware that the people behind her have experienced true fear and loss at the hands of Regina, that most of them are as powerless as she is against Regina’s magic and cruelty. It takes her breath away that they are here anyway, that they are still willing to do this for her. 

And for everything Regina has done to them. 

“At least let me send some fairies.”

She is flying blind. Out of everyone, Emma has the least experience in the battlefield, and yet they are yielding her everything. 

“No.” Resolute, she won’t be shaken. “We’ll use them if and when we need them.”

A pause. She can feel Snow’s hesitancy, the struggle not to speak, not to argue. In anything else, Emma would defer to her, ask her guidance, acknowledge the woman’s experience. 

“We’re going in blind.” Snow says at last. “She’ll see us coming like this.”

It makes Emma’s mouth set in grim determination. 

“She already knows we’re coming. Don’t fool yourself there.” 

There is no hope for a surprise attack, not walking straight into Regina’s lands, not with an army of this size, not when Regina herself waved the red flag at the bull by dropping her bleeding and unconscious at her parents’ feet. 

“At least let us pick up the pace.” Snow encourages. “We’re wasting time.”

Emma counts out five hoof beats, six… ten. 

“No.” She sighs and looks at Snow. “She knows we’re coming, we don’t gain anything by pushing ourselves too hard and too fast to get there. If she wants to stop us she will. We need to save our energy in case we need it later.”

“If?” Snow’s eyebrows rise. “In case? Emma, you’re still talking like it’s a choice.”

But Emma just bites her lip. 

And their horses keep moving forward. 

“Emma?” Snow eventually tries again when enough time has passed. “Emma, can we talk about before? What was that?”

She does not need to ask what Snow is talking about. She knows. She can still feel the energy gliding over her skin, electrifying her nerve endings as she’d slammed the door in the woman’s face without moving. Without answering, Emma closes her eyes and focuses more intently. 

Everything is more in the dark, the dark green earthy smell combined with the animal heat, the surge and glide of the horse, the buzzing drone of hundreds of voices, the oxygen slipping up her nostrils, past her lungs and into her bloodstream. 

And when she opens her eyes again, she lets out a small, triumphant cry of success and cannot tamp down the grin. 

Snow’s eyes are wide, but she smiles in gratitude as Emma hands over the small bunch of berries that had been summoned to them. She wonders if Snow remembers that first day, in the woods, eating lunch by the stream. 

Of course she does, Emma thinks. As if either of them will forget it. 

“You found your magic.” Snow breathes. “What…? I mean… how?”

There is no answer to that question, nothing satisfactory at least. She doesn’t ask Snow why she isn’t more surprised to learn Emma has magic at all. There are degrees of suspicion here and, compared to the million other oddities she has no answer to, the fact that magic here is assumed for some people and not others barely rates on the list. 

“It happened before. Once or twice.” She says, choosing her words carefully, not particularly eager for that discussion with her mother. “But always by accident. I didn’t control it. I’m still learning, it’s pretty hit and miss right now.”

Looking up into the sky, endlessly blue, Emma yearns to see something familiar. Just once. The streak of an airplane high up, the plume of white exhaust streaking across the sky. Or the cutting edge outline of a sky scraper, grey metal, cement and glass built higher than imaginable. But all she sees is the tops of trees, birds circling, and blue. 

Impossibly, ceaselessly, starkly blue. 

“I talked about it with Red, a little.” The admission makes her feel strangely guilty, like she should be embarrassed not having had that discussion with Snow. “And we figured that it came out when I was relaxed, peaceful.”

There’s a pause, another counting of hooves, before Snow responds.

“And you found that… by being hurt?”

The reluctance and distaste is obvious underneath the valiant effort to disguise them. It makes Emma smile. 

“No. No. I went back to her, because I couldn’t take it anymore.” Her lungs expand, taking in oxygen before she exhales, preparing the words and trying to get them to say exactly what she’s feeling. “Everyone keeps pushing me to fight this, they all want something from me, I felt pulled in two different directions. I couldn’t think.”

If her voice wavers at all, Snow shows no sign of noticing it. 

“I knew I had a decision to make, to fight or to give in for good, and I had to see her once more to really decide. I didn’t know what to do, I just...” Her jaw tightens slightly. “But she made that choice for me, I guess.”

The truth of it hits her like a torrent of ice water. 

“This is what she wants.”

“Emma…”

Next to her, Snow says her name in a breathy gasp, but Emma she can’t stop now, because she will lose her train of thought. 

“It made it all clear, you know. It just… I’m not conflicted anymore.”

“Emma.” Snow says more forcefully and Emma looks up to see her facing forward. “Emma, what is that?”

Like Emma is the expert of all things in this land, like she will know if Snow doesn’t. But Emma squints and raises her hand to shield her eyes as she gets a look at what had disturbed Snow in the first place. Rows of pinkish shapes lining the path far ahead. 

“I think… I think it’s people.”

Immediately Snow halts her horse and Emma does the same, Snow lifts her hand in a clear sign and the entire procession stops behind them, a rolling wave of hushed questioning concern. 

“I’ll go.” Emma says, before anyone else can. “I’ll go check it out.”

The glare that snaps her way is nothing short of deadly. 

“Like hell you will.”

James winds his horse over to them, weaving intricately among the other horses. By the time he reaches them, it is obvious he can see why they’ve stopped and his expression says he also knows why they’re holding a silent, glaring conversation. 

“We’ll all go.” He says. “The three of us.”

As if she has any other choice, Emma nods. There are times to pick her battles and this obviously isn’t one of them. 

The quick sprint feels good after hours of a leisurely trot, pushing her horse faster as they gallop closer to the waiting lines of people. The closer they get, the colder the sinking feeling in Emma’s stomach gets. 

“It’s the guards.” She says suddenly, pulling her horse up short. “They’re Regina’s guards.”

Beside her, Snow’s horse snorts in frustration at the sudden stop. 

In front of them, lining either side of the path, stand several men and, Emma realizes, a few women. All of Regina’s staff. Even though she has never seen any of the guards’ faces, she knows instantly that these are them. They all stand still, but she can see the way they try to stop the shivering as they stand in relative undress. 

Stripped of their uniforms. Waiting. 

Not moving. 

“I don’t like it.” 

James is the first to speak and Emma and Snow can merely nod. 

Before they can stop her, Emma knees her horse forward, knowing already that they will follow. Her sword jostles in its sheath against her hip and she is acutely aware of it and the movement it will take to reach down and pull it free. 

But something tells her it’s unnecessary. 

None of the standing people look up as they approach, they don’t move at all, and only the fact they remain upright reassures Emma that they are, indeed, still alive. It is not the time to wonder if, perhaps, the laws of physics don’t apply here and her brain is giving her false hope. 

“What is the meaning of this?” James asks the question when it becomes clear that no one is moving. “Tell us.”

By some unspoken agreement, or perhaps a prearranged one, one man steps forward and looks up. He barely meets their eyes. 

“We’ve been dismissed.” He says. “We are to let you pass unheeded.”

Even as he says the words, Emma looks up, along the path, towards Regina’s castle, as if the answers will be there, as if she can read them in the landscape. There is nothing there, of course, nothing to explain this and Emma looks back towards the army of her people waiting for their next order. 

She has never seen the faces of Regina’s guards, and they are nothing but men, but she knows the cook and the girl who brings her food and regardless of all the memories she has, she has no ill will towards any of them as they stand shivering, the men in shorts and the women in simple plain tunics. 

“They need clothes.” Emma confers with her parents in a quiet voice, just a little separate from the waiting ex-staff. “It’s too cold out here, some of them are turning blue.”

The intent is clear and Snow is shaking her head before Emma is even finished. 

“Don’t.” This is one thing she will argue with them about. “Go back and see who can spare cloaks, shirts or heavier clothes.”

“And what?” Snow hisses. “Let you ride off alone to probable torture and death? Emma, no.”

“She’s not going to kill me.” But it’s obvious Snow is not convinced and one look at James says that he’s not exactly rushing to back her up either. “Look, didn’t you hear what he said? She dismissed them all. She’s alone. And you want to what, descend on her castle with an army?”

James opens his mouth, but Snow is quicker. 

“I heard exactly what he said, did you?” She pushes forward, closer to Emma. “He said: trap. Trap, trap, trap, trap, trap. That’s what he said!”

Their horses shuffle, great huffs of heated air puffing out of their nostrils, their legs jittery and their necks moving, getting into and out of each other’s faces in a physical representation of the silent argument being held above them. 

“I’m going.” Emma insists. “And I’m going alone. Set up camp here and wait for me. Look, she can’t kill me as long as the contract stands.”

It’s not the killing aspect that has Snow worried, she can tell. Truthfully, the fact that Regina completely lost it the night before has not gotten lost on Emma. She’s riding with the reminder now, each flex of her abdomen on top of the horse stretches the stitches. 

If she wanted, Regina could do a lot worse. 

And Emma would be powerless to stop her. But something has changed drastically, something is shifting in the seismic plates of Regina’s emotional landscape, and it gives Emma the chills, a heavy sick feeling that won’t leave. The woman has sent everyone away, barricaded herself up in her castle and now seemingly waits without resistance for an angry mob. 

She has seen this before, in various forms, in her not so stellar history in prison and in foster homes heavy with psychiatric problems and drugs. 

“We don’t have to bring everyone.” James suggests, the diplomatic bridge between her and Snow. “But at least let’s take a small contingent. Even if we stay outside and wait for your signal, until you request us, let some of us come.”

She wants to flare up at this, demand her way or no way, but it is a reasonable request. There is the stirring of something she can feel, a thin little thread of jealousy that insists she is the only one to see Regina, that doesn’t want anyone else there. 

_They will hurt her._ It comes to her in a flash, her fear. _They all want to hurt her._

It’s an absurd thought, particularly given she is leading an army to Regina’s very door. And it is this instant, this little throwaway moment that Emma realises that the choice she made was not the one everyone thinks she has. 

Somewhere, subconsciously, as she listened to them plan their attack, she knew this would be the only way to go back, the only way they would let her anywhere near Regina. 

“How does it matter? One or twelve or five hundred?” She asks. “She has more magic than any of us, all of us combined. If she wanted to defeat us, we’d probably already be dead.”

The truth of it is stark and written plainly over their faces. 

“Let me go.” It’s a plea. “She… trusts me. I guess. Anyone else would put her on the defensive.”

“And what happens when she decides to gut you even further?”

Snow is not backing down and Emma can do nothing but shrug. 

“It’s nothing she hasn’t done before.”

James is the first one to break, his face clearly showing his disapproval of the plan, but his eyes glinting in a tiny glimmer of respect and understanding. 

There are many things she could say right now, about how she’s glad to have them, how she might not show it, but having them now means more than she ever thought possible. She could give them a message for Henry. 

But she already said her farewells to him before they set off, as he wished her well, and anything else added now to anyone would sound too much like goodbye. 

With one last look to James, Emma gives a nod to her parents and digs the sides of her thighs in.

“Emma…” Snow calls after her, but when she looks back, James has a hand at her elbow. 

It is surreal and eerie to ride between the files of ex-guards that line the path, it solidifies that sick feeling in her gut. And when Emma gets to the end of the line, she tells herself she should not be surprised to find silver and steel lying in piles, waiting and offered to her. 

All the weapons. 

Regina is symbolically defenceless. 

Energy crackles in the air around her, a reminder of her newfound power, and Emma gives one last wave to James and Snow, the shapes of all the people behind them, as the only piece of comfort she can and spurs her horse forward in a full sprint. 

Perhaps this time they will be more or less equals. 

***

_At twenty-two years of age, Edith considers herself incredibly fortunate._

_She is engaged to the most handsome man, a member of the King’s court, with nothing but the promises of advancement. The wedding is set for next summer and she has a seamstress already planning her dress._

_Until then, however, she has her younger brothers to care for. Their parents died last year and the two boys depend on her for everything. So she is a governess. Not such an arduous task, really, as her fiancé gives her enough standing to ensure placements in the most prominent families in town._

_And this family, she cannot believe her luck, this little girl is a doll._

_At eight years old she is beautiful, with dark hair framing her face and rosy cheeks and the brightest eyes imaginable, this little girl is a delight to instruct and teach and play with. Her laugh makes Edith grin and her eager, whispered words of affection are music to that soft, deep little place inside Edith that dreams of her own children one day._

_Up until now she has believed that the hardest part of this job is loving her charges so desperately._

_And then she walks in the door and sees her beautiful, happy, gorgeous little doll sitting at the desk with her back straight and her forearms laying flat on the table. There is a brightness to her eyes that has nothing to do with play or laughter. But it is her face, oh her face, swollen on one side, bruised, with a garish and painful looking slash over her lip._

_“Regina.” Edith forgets propriety and the need to remain a shining example of all things noble as she falls to her knees next to the girl, an unforgivable sin as her dress will be unquestionably wrinkled, and gently cups the girl’s face. “Baby, what happened?”_

_She can feel the tiny throat muscles working, a difficult swallow as she breathes in._

_“I… I fell off my horse.” Regina says, haltingly and unconvincingly. “I didn’t listen and I fell.”_

_It’s instinct and horror and disbelief, to caress the girl’s cheek with the thumb of her left hand and sweep her hair back with her right. Again and again, equal parts comforting the girl as herself._

_“No, no, it’s okay.” She wraps her arms around the resisting girl and hums. “That’s no horse. Tell me who did this?”_

_And Regina pulls back, panic making her eyes grow even wider as she practically claws herself out of Edith’s grasp._

_“Please.” She begs, an awful heartbreaking sound from someone so young. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t ask things! You can’t like me. You shouldn’t like me.”_

_Rapid, frantic shakes of her head make Regina’s hair fly whip like around her face._

_“Why?” It stuns her, confuses her, this proclamation. “Why shouldn’t I like such a wonderful girl?”_

_And Regina trembles._

_“Because, I like you. You’re nice, Miss Edith.” Another swallow, large and bulky around a sob. “And when I like people, they get hurt.”_

_Edith hushes her, a whisper of comfort, as she strokes the top of Regina’s head._

_“Hey, shhh. I’m okay. Look at me, nothing’s going to hurt me.”_

_A strained cough sounds from the door and its immediate effect on Regina is unmistakable._

_“Excuse me, Edith.” She has never heard Mrs Mills sound so cold before. “May I see you in the parlour for a moment?”_

_Habit makes her duck her head, a silent agreement._

_“Of course.”_

_She is standing before she even thinks about it and pauses only long enough to stroke the top of Regina’s head one more time for comfort, to try and ease whatever has made the girl turn rigid. Facing the front of the room again, hands clenched tightly to the edge of the desk, Regina sits ramrod straight._

_“I’ll be right back, okay?”_

_There is no time to wait for an answer, but Edith thinks she has already gotten it with the sight of a tear running down the side of the girl’s face._

_“I seem to have interrupted something.” Mrs Mills suggests as she opens the parlour door wide enough for Edith to slip past. “I do hope everything is going well with my daughter’s studies?”_

_“Yes. Of course.” Edith begins, because there is never any problem with Regina’s studies. The girl is incredibly brilliant in all areas. “But there was something I was worried about.”_

_Interest gleams in Mrs Mills’ eyes, a cold spark that sends a shiver down Edith’s spine, and the woman bares her teeth in a cold, unfriendly smile as she closes the door resolutely behind her._

_“Well then, Edith, let’s talk.”_

***

It still amazes Regina how empty her castle is without anyone else in it. 

As if the silent and invisible staff she has held, dozens of little hearts in their boxes, filled the nooks and crevasses of the place, swelled with it until the walls would burst at their seams. It’s such an indulgent, morose train of thought that the edges of Regina’s lips curl up in derision. 

She has been alone for as long as she can remember, no matter how many people have been around, so the thought that the suddenly empty and cavernous castle should be so jarring is amusing. Or it would be, if she hadn’t been listening to the sound of her own heartbeat for the last twelve hours. 

Thumping out a beat, as heavy and as symbolic as Poe’s raven, it follows her from room to room and no matter what she does she cannot get the sound and feel of it out of her head. 

It’s a countdown, it’s been a countdown since the very second Regina dropped Emma at her parents’ feet. 

They should be here soon. A hundred, two hundred, countless soldiers geared up for battle. And Regina has no inclination to do anything but wait. She wonders how it will happen, if they’ll go classic and make it a trial by fire, an entire horde of villagers after justice. 

If Snow herself will wield a sword, demanding her own poetic victory. 

Her elbows clench in tight to her body, fingers grasping tightly to the undersides of each forearm. And she laughs at her own morbidity. She is self-aware enough to know that she will not go quietly. She will not stand still and let them take her down, no matter how easy she has seemingly made it for them. 

This is a fight long coming and it is not to be fought by intermediaries. In this, at the very least, she will not have nameless, faceless guards striking the final blow for her. 

She is prepared for an army, for a convoy of Snow and Charming baying for blood, her senses are waiting for it. Which is how a lone, solitary rider is able to slide under her radar, dismount in front of the castle doors, push her way in and enter without alerting Regina to her presence. 

“I came back.”

_Emma._

Regina spins before she can help it, before she can properly prepare herself, and she is not able to hold back the gasp of air as her chin falls, opening her mouth. Emma stands in the doorway, a halo of sunlight behind her, sword held at the ready. Her face is flushed from an obviously hard ride, her hair is falling out of a braid and framing her features, practically glowing in the light. 

She is the very image of everyone’s saviour. 

“Put down the sword, My Pet.” Regina smiles, an indulgent, condescending little moue. “You’re not here to kill me.”

Emma blinks at her words, face cracking just enough to show weakness, and her arms sag just a little, lowering her weapon. 

“It’s for defence.” Stronger than Regina has heard in months, Emma’s voice doesn’t shake. “I’m not the dangerous one.”

There’s an entire room between them, too much space and yet not enough and they both know that a mere sword wouldn’t stop Regina if she didn’t want it to. It’s not a weapon, it’s a shield, the grown up version of a blankie. 

And Emma is clutching it harder than she even knows, if her stark white knuckles are anything to go by. 

“Oh, but you are, Emma.” Regina steps forward, four large strides, and Emma immediately hefts the sword back up. “More so than you realise, I imagine.”

“I should.” The words sound like they hurt. “I should be here to kill you.”

Eyebrows rise right up into Regina’s hairline. 

“And if you were, you would have been taken straight to my chamber before you even got on your horse. Don’t waste my time pretending otherwise.”

Emma swallows, a large, messy gulp and her eyes crinkle in the corners. 

“Why?” It comes out strangled. “Why do it?”

 _Why do what?_ The admonishment comes immediately and habitually to Regina’s brain, a correction in a harsh voice, years of training in proper deportment. 

They both know exactly what she’s asking and it’s obviously not time for games. 

Her eyes slide down Emma, the slim form in her riding clothes again, and she takes in the protective stance, the way the woman is shielding her torso. It’s plainly still hurting her and Regina knows instantly that no magic was used to heal her. Pure, basic healing and first aid, torturous and agonising. 

Emma suffers from the same bursts of self-sacrificial martyrdom as her mother.

“Because I can.” Regina says simply. “Because that’s what Evil Queens do.” 

“Bullshit.” Emma lowers the sword completely, the point of it coming to rest on the floor at her feet. “I don’t believe that.”

There is nothing to do but shrug. 

“I warned you. You had no idea what you were asking for; I just gave you a glimpse.”

There is a breaking point for everybody, the limit to which they can withstand pressure, each person is different and sometimes it takes more effort to find it, but it is there and it is always changing. Regina has found Emma’s physical breaking point many times over, her emotional ones often enough. 

But this, this is something else. 

Regina knew, the very moment it was happening and every moment since, she knew she had crossed a line by losing control the night before. She has hurt Emma before, split her skin, made her cry, left her breathless and shuddering, but this time she has severed something indefinable. 

It would be easy enough, simple, to demand Emma fall to her knees, to begin the cycle again. She is still bound, the collar is still around her neck, she would have no recourse to do anything but obey or face the consequences of outright disobedience. 

But that is the coward’s way, Regina knows it, and something tells her it would be more of a fight than she expects. 

Emma saw more of Regina than she has previously thought possible. It was a novice move, she is clearly out of practice, she should know better, she did know better once upon a time. Before the curse, before Storybrooke and Henry and being the Mayor and pacing the floor at three am with a teething child and picking lego pieces from between her toes, Regina would never have revealed so much. 

Of course it would do nothing less than change Emma, change the dynamic between them, and Regina can feel things spiralling even more impressively out of control. 

“Stop it!” Emma cries it, a harsh, choked sound of fury. “Stop talking to me like a child and stop spouting all that crap about Evil Queens. I don’t believe that any more than you do!”

Another step, two, and Regina is close enough now to see the harsh breath that drags Emma’s chest up and out, not yet close enough to touch or smell. 

“Don’t you?” Lifting her hand in front of her, Regina cups a small ball of fire. “There’s nothing to believe, Emma, it’s what I am.”

The threat is clear and even from the distance between them she should be able to see fear in Emma’s eyes, or something more than the briefest acknowledgement flickering across her face. 

It’s a small pocket of energy, not even a spell, it’s barely even magic at this point, just a twitch of her palms and a concentration of force to bring the fire. If she wanted to hurt or cause any real damage, Regina has many much more effective weapons in her arsenal. 

This is a snap, a growl, a warning, and she throws it easily towards Emma. 

And Emma lifts her hand in a small arc in front of her. It’s a clichéd move, something from movies and television and definitely something a beginner would try, too weak to do anything but knock the ball aside. 

It leaves a bright red mark on Emma’s skin. 

Small and ineffective, but it is there. Regina stares at the sparks that fizzle and die against the wall. 

“Your magic.” It comes out in a breath, an exhalation. “You found it.”

But Emma is not listening. 

“Dammit, I don’t believe you! You have done shitty things, awful, unforgivable things.” And for a second, Regina believes Emma will list them all, read from some rote list of sins told to her in a litany from the wronged parties. “But you’re not some cartoon villain. Not now, not since the curse broke.”

She should, Regina thinks, she should summon darker magicks, stronger than Emma could possibly know how to deal with, strong enough to cause some serious damage, really hurt the woman in front of her, tear her limb from limb as her screams echo off the walls. 

At one point, it would have been a delightfully attractive option. 

But Regina is surprised to find nothing but distaste in that possibility. 

“Does it make it easier to think that, Emma?” If nothing else, she can always go for the jugular. “Does it make you feel better when you’re grovelling at my feet? Spreading your legs in my bed? The bad, wicked Queen turned good? Repenting all her sins? Crying for forgiveness?”

As Emma shakes her head, Regina laughs, a cruel sound. 

“Sorry to disappoint, but that’s just not me.”

In this moment, with righteous eyes blazing in front of her, Regina cannot stop herself looking at Emma, taking the time to devour her with her eyes. She knows that body, knows exactly how to make her moan, to whimper, what the flush of exercise and nerves will make her skin taste like, exactly the angle her neck will bend as she throws her head back. 

She knows all of this, she also knows the limits, how much she can push before the moans and whimpers become stronger, turn into cries and begging. She knows how much pressure she can exert on the tender flesh before it splits. 

“How easy.” Emma spits at her. “To hide behind the labels like that.”

With everything that she knows, it has not occurred to her to even imagine that Emma has learned her as well. 

“What do you know?” Regina would like her voice to remain controlled, but it doesn’t, cracking and violent and angry. “You know nothing about me!”

She’s sparking, like some green novice who can’t control the energies around and inside her, it’s embarrassing and awful and she doesn’t even care anymore. 

“I know you had a terrible life.” The way Emma quirks her head to the side, the absolute obscenity of Emma’s _sympathy_ boils right up like acid in Regina’s belly. “I know awful things happened to you.”

Regina’s lips curl back off her teeth. 

“Emma.” 

It’s a low lying growl, a warning to the wise. But of all the things she has ever said about Emma Swan, wise was never one of them. 

“But suck it up, Regina!” And this, this woman with her intense eyes and hair glowing in what could easily be mistaken for righteousness, this woman is clearly insane and about to break something that should never, never be acknowledged let alone handled. “A lot of us had sucky lives. And not everybody ended up killing people or destroying the lives of everyone else. So find a new excuse.”

This time it is Emma that steps forward, the tip of the sword trailing against the stone floor. 

“You wanna go head to head and play who had the hardest life, compare them day to day and add it all up? Bring it on. Because I am ready for you.”

“You know nothing.” Regina grits out between her teeth. “Be careful what you talk about.”

Emma doesn’t blink. 

“I know enough.”

She doesn’t say it, not even Emma is that foolish, but the inference is clearly there. The knowledge of exactly who she would have learned such details from sits heavy and squat between them. 

As cowed as she has been, as obedient and docile as she has made her, Regina has lost sight of the huntress in Emma, the woman forged by her history into a marksman precise enough to kill. In the heat of argument, Emma Swan can level the room with a sentence aimed with pinpoint accuracy. 

This time, as it did in the graveyard, as it did back in her Mayor’s office, Emma’s next sentence stuns Regina. It steals her breath and twists cruelly in her gut. 

“At least you have the memory of Daniel.” She can’t even see Emma anymore, tossed so carelessly back to the past, to the scent of hay and green and earth and blood. “You knew he loved you! What did I have? Twenty-eight years with the knowledge I was dumped on the side of the road. I wasn’t even worth a basket!”

It’s like a squeeze on her lungs. 

“Stop. Talking.”

“You don’t own the market in shitty lives.”

The words come at her, relentless and unforgiving and they make her dizzy, spinning her around until she can’t even breathe anymore. 

“But I do own you.” 

This time Emma does back down, mouth falling open as she visibly deflates. 

And Regina counts out a litany to ten, to twenty, to fifty, until she can talk without hissing. 

“You have no right, Emma, to presume anything about me. I am not a charity case. I am not something to be salvaged or pitied.” The words taste bitter in her mouth. “Don’t waste your tears on me. I can assure you, nobody else ever has.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” Emma quirks her head to the side and Regina feels her gaze like a knife. “You had no one.”

When she was ten years old, a travelling band of entertainers came to their kingdom, talented singers and bards, mime artists and puppeteers, and it became a mark of pride to host them for at least one night. Against all her natural instincts, much to her dismay, Cora Mills had been forced to let them inside the Mills’ estate to perform at a lavish gala. Regina can still remember her heart beating in her chest, wild and rapid. But most of all, she remembers the old crone that had travelled with them, crooked with age, bent under the weight of threadbare blankets heaped on her back, the woman had whittled and rocked and whittled and watched out of narrow, beaded eyes all night. 

She had reached out a gnarled fist when Regina had gotten too close, wrapping fingers around her wrist and pulling her close. _Even a caged bird needs a friend, lass._ She’d croaked. _Treasure it._

And when the troupe had gone, the woman had left Regina a small, crickety wooden cage that contained a wren. A tiny, wretched, half-starved looking thing with no weight on its bones, but it sang to Regina when she fed it honey soaked bread, sang so prettily that she forgot to hide her joy. 

When Cora had entered the room, the bird had grown frantic, screeching loudly and beating its wings and head against the bars, again and again, panicked to the point of feathers floating in a haze as it struggled to fly in two square feet of prison. 

Regina feels like that now, small and insignificant, throwing herself against cage walls in a futile bid for escape, for freedom, any cessation from the growing growling noise in her head. 

“Nobody ever told you it would be okay.” Emma continues. “Nobody ever said it was okay to be angry.”

And it can’t be Regina that whimpers, because Regina does. Not. Whimper like a trapped rabbit. 

Magic comes naturally to Regina, she barely even has to think about it, the energy that surrounds her, swarms her, is as much a part of her as her limbs and her hair, when she was first learning to harness it she was told – over and over again – that to lose control of her emotions was to invite chaos, that she had to keep a tight grasp on herself. 

Yet in this very moment, at her basest instinctual level, it is not with magic that she lashes out. Surprising herself as much as Emma, Regina launches herself forward and pushes the woman backwards, harsh and heavy, until she slams with a thunk against the far wall and the clatter of the sword to the floor. 

It is purely physical, pressing her there, feeling Emma’s pulse against the fingers she has wrapped around her throat. They’ve done nothing, but they’re both panting, hot breath streaming out of their nostrils as she pins Emma against the wall. 

“Do you want to see me angry, Emma?” She hisses it, pure unabridged threat. “Do you?”

Emma does not fight back. 

She’s barely even resisting. It hits Regina then, that even coming charging into the castle with her sword drawn, Emma has not made an offensive move. Everything has been defensive, even down the simple side sweeping of the fireball. 

Her hand rears back, springing forward as if to strike, but it’s deflected easily when Emma raises a hand and pushes it outwards. It angers her even further, surges through her nerves and sparkles a red hot frustration in her brain. 

The next strike is aimed more carefully, with more fury behind it, and still Emma deflects. That and the next one and the one after that, swiping Regina’s attacks away capably if not easily. And throughout it all, Emma’s eyes never leave her own. 

It’s almost comical, the struggle between them as Regina’s blows become less and less precise and just plain desperate. 

And it ends when Regina feigns left, easily slipping her wrist in behind Emma’s block and to the back of her neck, fingers twisting decidedly and inescapably into the long, messy braid, hooking in and pulling down. 

Emma’s neck bends, face pointed upward, and still she doesn’t retaliate. 

The only resistance she gets is two hands clamping down on her wrist, halting the pressure from painful to just bearable, but not stopping it completely. 

“Fight back.” Regina grits through her teeth, tasting the salt in her saliva. “Damn you.”

But Emma only shakes her head, as much of a movement as she can against Regina’s hold. 

“I’m not here to fight.”

Riding in on horseback with her sword drawn, her parents and no telling how many dozens of soldiers for the cause waiting at some unknown point would suggest otherwise, but Regina doesn’t press the point. 

Instead, she trails the curve of Emma’s chin with her free hand. 

“And what did you come here for, Emma?”

Spine bent awkwardly, Emma can do little else but twist against the pull. There is a blank look on her face, confusion, and she doubts the woman even knows. 

“What is your end game? What do you want out of this? Tell me, what do you see happening here, if you don’t fight me?” Words thread through her brain, the memory of last night. “What was it you said? Boundaries? You want to set limits and have discussions and dialogues about what is fair?”

Control is much easier to maintain when she has Emma at her mercy and it makes slipping back into mocking that much smoother. 

“Tell me what goes on in that little head of yours. Do you see yourself living with your parents? And what? Coming by on Tuesdays for afternoon tea and light bondage?” It’s a snide little curve of her lip. “That’s not submission, Emma, that’s role playing.”

Curiosity swarms her brain and Regina lets Emma’s hair go, allows her to straighten her spine before she takes hold of the woman’s wrists. There is still no resistance and she lifts them high, stretches Emma’s arms up above her head. 

Her body elongated, Emma arches her back, it’s such a purely feline movement that Regina bites her lip. Pressed for an answer, she would have likened Emma as more canine, a stray following people around and begging for scraps of attention. 

But this, this is different, and Emma is taunting and tempting and completely unaware of the effect of her own body. 

She cannot stop herself leaning down, clamping her mouth over Emma’s throat. 

“Why?” But Emma is not content to let her be, not resisting but not complying. “Why do you need complete submission all the time?”

Her teeth bite down, carefully, but firm enough for the warning to be felt, the punishment clear. 

Emma squirms in her hold. 

“Me.” She gasps. “Graham… everyone.”

Regina closes her eyes instead of answering, refuses to hear the words as she buries her forehead in Emma’s neck. They’re still panting, harsh breath that should be strange considering they have done very little. Regina’s shoulder blades stretch almost painfully, hyperextended in the reach above her own head to hold Emma’s wrists against the wall. 

“Why can’t you let anyone else have control?”

And she trembles, quakes against the woman in her grip, like the kicked puppy she thought Emma to be. 

“Because.” She grits it out, chokes on it, more to stop Emma speaking than to actually answer. “You hurt or you get hurt. I won’t do that again. I won’t…”

 _Please Mother._ She’d begged it, throat closing as tightly as the lock on the door, the stiff white girdle under the stiff white dress cutting into her abdomen. _Please don’t make me do this. I will die here._

“How lonely.” Emma whispers above her. “For you.”

It’s the lack of insult, the absence of any bite or malice that hits her the hardest and Emma’s _sympathy_ galls her beyond bearing. It’s a jolt, one little jostle, barely a movement at all, but she lifts Emma away from the wall and slams her back. 

One tiny little wave of warning. 

“Better than you.” This time when she lifts her head, her eyes have narrowed into slits. “So desperate for the least bit of comfort you sell yourself to get it.”

The sliver of hurt that cracks in Emma’s eyes is nothing more than kindle to her, something to grasp onto and nurture, anything to shift the focus. 

“That’s why you like it.” 

Emma jerks in her hands, the denial already formed on her lips and anger in her eyes. But Regina is quicker and stronger and worked up beyond any form of restraint she has ever had. The best and only way to protect a large, gaping wound is to attack anything that comes close. 

“You tell yourself you don’t, because you think you shouldn’t. You think you should hate this, hate me, but you don’t.” Bringing her face in close, Regina speaks the words directly into Emma’s mouth, heated breath mingling with heated breath. “You like what I do to you, you need it, it’s what gets you off.”

She is close enough that, for a second, Regina almost believes Emma will lunge forward and bite, so angry and betrayed is the expression on her face. 

“You don’t trust comfort when it’s given freely, do you Emma? Hmm? Back at your castle, they want nothing but to shower you with affection, I’d wager, but you won’t let them. It doesn’t mean anything if it’s too easy to come by.”

Her need is a heady mix between hurt and hunger, she could do either right now, close her fingernails against Emma’s throat and squeeze so tight the tendons underneath pop, or caress the side of her face, stroke patterns in the little peach fuzz hair that covers Emma’s cheek. 

She settles for an unsatisfying mix of the two, letting her right hand drop from the woman’s wrists, sliding it down the skin of her arm to her shoulder and up her neck, pushing deep with her thumb pad so that the skin of her chin wrinkles before it. 

A caress that holds a threat. 

The tension that sparks in Emma tells her the underlying risk is well noted. 

“It’s why you welcome the pain, because you know no matter how bad it is, I’ll make it better. That’s your price and it makes it all the sweeter, doesn’t it? The only way you think you deserve to be loved is if you earn it first, with blood and tears.”

Emma is the first to look away and Regina is tempted, oh so tempted to lick the tear that slides down her cheek. 

“How is that better than me, Emma? I want to know.” 

She could kiss her right now, push forward and seal her mouth over Emma’s, slip her tongue right through her lips over each of her teeth, against her tongue, taste her, claim her again and again and again. The want of it steals her breath. So she pushes away instead, takes several steps backwards, lets air come between them and back into her lungs. 

It’s easy to hold out her hand, sweep Emma’s sword off the floor and float it back to an unwilling hand. Emma’s arm slinks down the wall to her side, slowly, as if it’s an unwelcome weight, until it stands upright in front of her. Ready again. 

Everyone’s broken, unwilling saviour. 

“You want to keep denying it, Princess?” It’s a challenge as she licks her teeth. “Then let’s get down to it.”

The last thing Regina expects is for Emma to bring the weapon up and lunge forward. 

But it is not cold steel she feels at her waist and Emma’s swing is wide, it’s a hand sliding into the curve and pushing her aside and behind. By the time Regina has recovered enough to turn, she is stunned to see the second person who has entered the castle without her noticing. 

And even before the sword is lowered again, dropping with a clang of metal on stone, Regina cannot help but laugh. It’s much too delicious. 

Emma, protecting the Evil Queen from Snow White. 

***

Snow has been on the business end of a sword too many times not to see the gesture for what it is. 

The defensive posture, weapon ready, shallow breathed fighting stance, her own daughter prepared to defend the woman behind her. Of course, she also knows how easy the familiarity sinks into Emma’s eyes, the instant recognition falls the sword is lowered. 

Once the fight leaves, Emma’s eyes fill not with surprise but with disappointment. She’d known Snow would follow, but she’d still hoped to be trusted. 

This is the one thing Snow cannot trust. 

Her eyes rise, further, behind Emma, to the sound of laughter and cruelty, her ears tuned to the very cadence, immediately sending alarm bells to her brain, kick starting the fight or fight reflex. 

“How many?”

Snow blinks at Emma’s question, it’s not unwarranted. 

“None.” She answers truly. “I’m alone. Red helped me distract James and I slipped away. He’ll come, of course, but I have a head start.”

There is no way to tell how much of a head start. James and whoever else decides to ride with him can come at any moment. She hadn’t seen anyone behind her, but she is not willing to bet anything of value on the amount of time they have. 

It was easy to slip into the castle, knowing as she did that there were no guards, no staff, nobody but Regina and Emma. It was definitely more difficult to see them, against the wall, intimate in the fierceness of every gesture. 

And Emma was right, of course she was, that Regina was more open alone. 

It did not stop the fear when she saw the sword rise, or the gasp as Emma’s hand had closed over the handle. This, she suspects, is what gave her away, is what alerted Emma to another presence in the supposedly empty castle. 

“I should have guessed it would be you, next in line, to come knocking on my door weapons drawn, Snow. Are all the Charmings going to take a turn? Will James be next? How long until Henry storms the castle, hm?”

Snow meets Regina’s gaze and bites her tongue. There are so many things she could say, but it is nothing to what she heard minutes ago, nothing to the wild look in the woman’s eyes. She merely raises her arms, palms outwards in a sign of supplication, her own sword falling to the floor. 

Just like the last time, it won’t be of any use. 

And Snow has to believe that if the situation arose wherein a forged weapon _could_ possibly save her life, that Emma would have it covered. 

“I’m not here to fight you, Regina.”

Regina laughs again, even as Emma winces. It’s a dark amusement and Snow recognises the undercurrents of some private joke, something she is not supposed to understand, that she is deliberately excluded from. 

“Seriously? Did all you Charmings get together and plan battle strategies, word for word?”

Of course, Emma must have said the same thing as she stood, sword ready, facing Regina. 

In the face of her denial, Regina stops laughing. 

“Is that what you’d have me believe, Dear Snow? That you horsed a hundred soldiers and marched through the forest with your banners held high, weapons hoisted, merely to _talk_?”

It’s one little switch of focus and she meets Emma’s eyes, slightly narrowed but not at her, something in the conversation has triggered Emma’s thought processes, something has caught her interest, but Snow cannot figure out what that might be. 

She does notice that Emma has yet to turn away, that she is more comfortable facing Snow head on and keeping her back to Regina. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Regina.” Her eyes switch again, flicking back to the woman she once called mother. “But didn’t you threaten to kill me and mine the next time you saw me? Forgive me if I bring back up.”

Bringing her hand to her chest in a show of false realisation, Regina pouts. 

“Oh, I did, didn’t I? Well then.” She snaps a finger. “Emma, do be a dear and attack.”

It’s a fraction of a second, so fast she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, that Snow looks to Emma to see what she will do, a reflex really. But it’s enough for Regina to see, to make her laugh again, delighted in Snow’s fear. 

Emma’s only reaction is to roll her neck slowly with her shoulder, turning so she can look at Regina an expression Snow would dearly love to see. 

The hand holding the sword doesn’t even shift its grip, let alone rise any.

“That’s a direct order, My Pet.” The voice is serious now. “Show me your sword fighting skills.”

Not for one second does Snow believe Emma will obey, she feels secure enough in that knowledge not to even bother looking down to check the position of her abandoned weapon, but there is something going on here, an undercurrent of something more deadly that she just can’t reach. 

“Please.” Emma begs, her neck rolling on its axis. “Please, don’t. I… I can’t.”

“Emma.” It’s a low growl, an unmistakable warning. “This is your last warning.”

“It’s okay.” Snow rushes in, because realisation has just hit. “You don’t have to, Emma. It will be okay.”

And Snow is helpless to stop this. 

“Emma.”

It’s just one word, a name, but the menace practically drips from it and the effect on Emma is unmistakable, the torment that shakes her. 

“Regina, please!” Shaking herself, Snow is pleading almost as desperately as her daughter. “Don’t…”

The clatter of Emma’s sword falling to the ground shakes Snow more than she expects. 

For a heartbeat, she doesn’t accept what she’s seeing, unable to process the dissolution of the woman she has helped rebuild, but it is clear and unmistakable. 

Fear. 

She reaches a hand out, the denial already dying on her lips, but it’s too late and she can only watch as Emma, freshly confident and upright and self-assured Emma, falls down to her knees. Easily and habitually and brokenly. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s whispered to the floor. “I’m sorry, My Queen.”

“No.” Snow insists, unable to stop herself. “Emma, no. Get up.”

But it’s useless, she knows it, she knows this woman, this subservient, scraping shadow. The same one that was thrown to their castle six weeks ago, the one that struggled hard to heal, that was unable to do a single thing on her own. 

She’s back, because Emma couldn’t face not obeying a direct order. 

When she looks up, she sees Regina stepping forward and the disgust pours thick and heavy in her stomach, knots it, twists it, until she has no choice but to step forward, placing herself directly in front of Emma and blocking the woman’s path. 

“No, Regina.” And she has been cowed by this woman before, brought down, terrified and broken, but right at this very moment she does not care. “Stop it. Do you hear me? You stay away from her!”

She expects a backlash, Regina’s anger, the strike of magic or harsh words, but all she gets is a soft gasp down to her legs, a shaking, rattling inhalation. They are not touching, but she can feel Emma’s energy at thigh level, the trembling and the fear. 

“You would do best to move away, Snow.”

Regina is calm, out of the three of them she is the only one who is. Snow’s anger is bristling too close to panic and regret and frustration and anguish and all of it is compounded by the soft voice coming from below. 

“I’m sorry.” Again and again and again, a denial and a plea and a mantra, over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

And when Snow reaches down to trail a hand through Emma’s hair, that natural comfort she has been allowed all this time, the way Emma pulls back, scrambling away, makes Snow choke, hits her right where it hurts. 

“This is the worst.” She reels back to Regina, pointing her finger. “Out of everything you’ve ever done… this. This is the worst. It’s unforgivable!”

But Regina looks unfazed, not even blinking. 

“You’re making it worse.” She says, still calm, annoyingly, frustratingly, cruelly calm. “Step aside, Snow, and let me reassure her.”

It steals her breath, exactly what Regina is asking. As if Snow will willingly relinquish Emma back to her, give over her traumatised daughter to the woman who broke her, let Regina give effortlessly what Snow struggles to time and time again. 

She knows that Regina orchestrated this on purpose, gave Emma the directive knowing she would never follow it. Once again it’s another show, all for Snow. 

It’s the sound of a half choked breath that moves her, the snuffled, incoherent sound from Emma’s throat. 

And she cannot believe, cannot wrap her brain around the fact that she’s actually doing this, actually stepping back. Cannot believe the obscenity that is Regina stepping forward and reaching a hand out to soothe fingers down the side of Emma’s face. 

“There, there, My Pet.” Regina coos, actually has the nerve to coo at Emma. “I’m not angry.”

If she could, if Snow could move at all, she would close her eyes and turn away. She does not want to see the way Emma breathes this in, the comfort she takes from it, the solace that seeps into her very posture, the nuzzle of her cheek into Regina’s hand. She doesn’t want to see this, doesn’t want to know. 

But most of all, it is the expression on Regina’s face that galls her. 

The fingers of one hand would be enough to count the times in her memory, decades’ worth, that Snow has seen pure, untainted affection on Regina’s face. It’s breathtaking and awful in this context, unthinkable and yet undeniable. 

When she’d first met the woman, on that ill-fated grassy hill, it had shone from her face like a beacon. And once more, in the darkness of the barn, kissing an ill-fated boy. That should have been the last time in Snow’s memory and it is. For Snow. 

But Mary Margaret had seen it. 

Once, standing in line at Granny’s diner, waiting to order her hot chocolate, she had shuffled her weight from foot to foot and raised her head to meet eyes with small, curious hazel ones gazing at her over the Mayor’s shoulder. He had been a baby, not old enough to walk, and Mary Margaret had always wondered about Mayor Mills’ son, the boy from afar, and how a child so small could deal with someone so large and intimidating and fearsome. And there he was, reaching out to her with a chubby little hand as she smiled, greeting him with a cheery hello, only for him to be pulled back suddenly, sheltered in the arms of his mother, jealous and dark pointed eyes warning her away. _He’s shy_ , were the words spat at her, while Regina’s hands held him to her, laid softly over his back and the top of his head, shielded him, scurrying him away with a kiss to the top of his head and all the while he had smiled his gummy toothless, un-shy smile. 

And again, years later, in the slowly sinking evening of Miner’s Day, the daylight leeched away to an inky blue dusk with the townsfolk chatting and browsing the various stands, cradling their fat glowing candles, Mary Margaret had spied the Mayor seated on a wooden bench with a container of treats of some sort, trying to parcel them out, while a boy of around four climbed beside and behind and around her, his weight shifting the woman’s body like an undulating wave, and nothing but a look of patience and indulgence on her face as she’d reached up and cupped his chin while telling him to settle down. 

Heartless is the word that comes to Snow. 

Yet it is the wrong one, because those tiny few moments then and the one in front of her now prove otherwise. She is incapable of combing the two, of melding the ideas, the cruelty and the compassion, the woman who would break another for the fun of it, yet was able to look at her with sincere, honest warmth. 

Words fail her and she is almost grateful for it, fearful of the venom that would spew from her mouth if she could speak. 

“Stand up, Emma.” Regina encourages, pointed fingernail pushing slightly under Emma’s chin. “We were doing so well with our confrontations. Let’s not stop now.”

And Emma rises, lifting up on one knee and then the other, straightening up in tremulous, shaky movements looking like nothing more than a newborn foal learning to walk. 

The urge to push forward, reach out and physically grab Emma, pull her back and away is overwhelming and Snow bites down hard to resist it. She doesn’t even need to think to know how big that mistake would be. 

A flash goes through her brain, a spark of connection that she can’t shake. It doesn’t stop and all of a sudden she can hear Rumplestiltskin’s words, the plan, all of it. They needed Emma hardened by that other world to survive this, to survive Regina.   
The evidence is right before her, because Emma is bringing out what nobody else beyond the age of ten has ever been able to.

But Snow cannot accept this, not at face value, not when it comes at the cost of Emma. 

“How?” She asks instead, a broken form of pleading, the same question again and again. She will never stop asking. “How is this revenge against me?”

She has stopped asking if it will be enough, it will never be enough, not for Regina. 

“Please.” She is not above begging now, watching Emma stand cowed next to the woman who has taken everything from her. “Please let her go, Regina. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Nobody does. 

Regina takes a moment to run her hand down the side of Emma’s face, a casual, careless caress that ends on the side of her neck, fingers pausing to pat the skin. A petting. A reassurance. A loving stroke. Snow has to look away. 

“And what would you have me do?” Regina asks, curious and calm. “Abandon her? Like everyone else in her life? Do you think _that_ is what she needs? Is that what she deserves?”

Emma’s eyes spring back and forth, from Snow to Regina, and Snow cannot read them, cannot decipher the emotion warring inside. She wishes she could, wishes she understood more about the situation, enough to know what Emma truly wants. 

But she knows enough to understand what Regina is saying. 

“There has to be a way to end this.” Snow suggests, scrabbling for something in desperation. “A way to make it right for her.”

The suggestion doesn’t go unnoticed, she can tell, by the gleam in Regina’s eye, amusement that Snow would sink so low. 

“Her is still here.”

Emma finds her voice, breaking away from Regina and stepping back. Away from both of them. 

“Did you hear that, Emma?” Regina arches her eyebrows. “I think your mother wants me to erase your memories, wipe out the last few months, leave you brain addled and in her care.”

And Snow could just smack Regina, just reach over and smack the gloat from her face. It’s not how she would have phrased it, not that harshly, but it’s not too far off the mark of what she was hinting at. It would be simple to erase everything that Regina had done, have Emma back fresh from Storybrooke.

“Emma.” Snow tries again. “No, that’s not…”

“Is that what you want, My Pet?”

“No.” Emma gasps and Snow looks over to see her right arm in front of her torso, clutching at the damage there. “No.”

She turns back to Regina. 

This woman, who has been many things to Snow in many different reincarnations. Friend, Step Mother, tormentor, predator, witch, intimidating mayor, jailer, and back to tormentor. 

“Give her a chance.” She is not above open begging. “If not or her sake or yours, think of Henry, of what this is doing to him. Please. Give her a chance.”

“She had her chance.” Regina is close to seething, close to anger, which means she is close to dangerous. “And this is what she chose.”

Before either she or Emma has a chance to refute this claim, Snow watches unable to react as Regina lifts her hand up in slow motion. It’s the casting of a spell, unmistakable, and all she has time for, really, is to flinch and begin turning away, hoping against hope that she survives this. 

But it is not aimed at her. 

Instead, the sound of large doors slamming shut echoes around the room. Nobody even has time for confusion before there is thunderous knocking, the sound of a sword hilt belting against the wood. 

“Snow!” Muffled as it is, the sound of Charming’s voice is unmistakable. “Emma!”

“No more interruptions.” Regina hisses, fully into dangerous mode. “We get this done, now.”

She could run to the door herself, but this is unthinkable. Regina would not let her get five steps before stopping her, one way or another, Snow knows this. She could always shout, let him know they’re okay, but there’s a warning in Regina’s eyes that promises nothing good would come of it. 

Her heart seizes with the memory of Charming locked in the dungeons below. 

He just has to trust that they’ll be okay. 

“Then give Emma a second chance.” She demands instead. “Everyone deserves that.”

The breath that Regina takes then, large and gasping, is Snow’s only warning. 

“Everyone?” Regina’s voice is loud and careless and demanding. 

“Yes.” Snow stands her ground. “Everyone. Even you.”

The sound coming out of Regina’s throat is not even laughter, it’s biting and cruel. 

“Well, that’s rich. Where was my chance, Snow? I didn’t even get a first one, let alone a second one!”

Stalking forward, she is only a few feet from Snow, and this leaves Emma somewhere off to the side, separate from this. 

“If I was so worthy of all these chances, then tell me, please, where the hell was my fairy godmother?” Regina stabs a finger at her own chest, emphasising her words point by point. “Where were my woodland creatures? Where was Rumplestiltskin championing my true love?”

Standing still is her mistake, it has always been her mistake, and Snow finds a hand around her throat, sharp and hard, squeezing just shy of cruel. 

“Why did you get to have it all? What made you more deserving than I? True love’s kiss saved you!” She’s hissing in Snow’s face. “What was wrong with my kiss? Why didn’t that save my love? Tell me!”

But Snow has no answer. 

“The short answer is: I have never been worthy.” It’s snarled, before Snow is released with a shove that has her stumbling back. “So don’t tell me, either of you, that I am not evil. This is what I am, what I have always been. It’s what people want. It’s the only thing I know.”

In the throbbing silence that follows, Emma speaks again, quiet and calm and soothing. 

“Henry doesn’t think so.”

And Regina whirls, a grand movement, her anger flashing in a wide circle. A visceral, visual thing, sparking like energy in a cloud around her. She’s drawn away from Snow and she sees Emma brace herself. Brave, suicidal Emma. 

“Yes.” Regina bites out. “Please, tell me, when did he voice this opinion? Between how many calls for you to slay me did he voice this opinion? Kill her, it’s your destiny, you’re the white knight!”

The words are flung like curses and then her voice lowers into a mocking sweetness. 

“She’s evil… most of the time… maybe…”

The voice is angry, the words vicious, but there is heartbreak behind them. Snow can feel it, the same she feels whenever she looks at Emma. 

And Emma, Emma has tilted her head to the side, appraising Regina, the same puzzling look she had before. 

“You’ve been watching.” It’s a statement, putting the pieces together. “That’s why you never ask me about him. It’s how you knew about the soldiers.”

From her position, Snow can only see Regina’s head tilt for a moment, but she knows the eye roll that would have accompanied it, all scorn and derision. 

“Yes, my dear, that lovely little band of gold around your neck that marks you as mine. Gold is reflective, if you recall.”

Automatically, Emma’s hand rises to clutch at it, the betrayal evident on her face. 

“Oh, don’t worry.” Regina drawls, her body dipping and slinking down and up in a physical embodiment of the sarcasm that drips from her tone. “I have better things to do than follow your every movement.”

There are nuances between them that Snow doesn’t understand, doesn’t think she wants to understand, but she is fuelled by the same motives as Emma. She needs to draw Regina’s fire, at any cost. This is what they’re doing, Snow realises at once, each playing a dangerous game of distracting Regina from the other. 

It’s the most dangerous game of all, because if and when Regina picks up on it, the fall out will be severe. A cornered Regina, backed against the wall, fights hard and desperate. 

She wants to send a look over Regina’s shoulder to warn Emma to stop it, to step out of this game, because it’s not her fight, it’s never been her fight, this is between Snow and Regina, but even if she dared she doubts Emma would cave. 

“I know Henry.” Snow says, trying hard not to react to the flinch on Emma’s face and the darkening of Regina’s expression. “I’ve taught him for a year and I’ve lived with him for the last few months, Regina, I know him.”

And there it is again, that crackle, that shimmer that reminds her of nothing less than the feel of an electrical storm approaching. 

The knocking on the door and the shouting has died down, but there is movement and she knows that people are trying to find their way in. It means Regina is blocking them out, it means her energies are split. 

“He’s a child, Regina. Not quite eleven yet.” The words are coming out before she knows what she’s saying. “He understands as a child, it’s all black and white. Once he figured who you were, there was no choice for him.”

This is crazy, it’s insane, her and Emma standing here trying to talk Regina down from a ledge Snow doesn’t even know it’s possible to escape from. She doesn’t want to hurt Regina, she never has, but right now at this very moment all she wants is make sure Regina can’t hurt Emma again. 

“Because there is no choice! My fate is sealed.” This time it is Regina that steps back, one, two, three, until the three of them make a triangle. “Well before the saviour came to town to break the curse, long before you, Snow, as good as murdered Daniel.”

The tirade continues, well before Snow can even argue. 

“Before I was even born.” And Regina’s voice has gone duller, quieter, but definitely not calmer. “All the way back to my mother’s heart shrivelling at her deal with Rumplestiltskin. I was nothing but a tool. Do you see? And I’ve served my purpose.”

This time she looks at Emma. 

For one brief, heart stopping moment, Snow thinks Regina will ask the impossible of Emma. Snow knows, with complete certainty, that the Emma standing there right now, just the like the Emma of Storybrooke, the curse breaker, the Sheriff, the wayward waif riding into town in a broken down bug, is incapable of murder. 

Of killing anyone outright. 

And it doesn’t matter how much Regina has done and continues to do to Emma herself, she does not have it in her to take that life. 

But Regina does not ask this and Snow is allowed to breathe again. 

“So if I am to be evil, then I will _be_ evil.”

But the words are not comforting in any sense. 

“Regina…”

Before Snow gets any more words out, the magic hits her full force, throwing her back to the sound of gasping. She hits the floor at an awkward angle, her left hip taking the brunt as she bounces off stone. 

“And you, Snow, who never fails to tell me all the awful things that have happened in your life, you have never been touched by sorrow. You always recover. It doesn’t stay with you!”

Snow folds her torso in on itself, trying to ease the pressure of her hip, and as she does she can see the falter that Emma gives. 

“But it does her?” As if she even needs to ask. “That’s why you want her?”

She struggles to stand, but as Regina draws back her arm, winding up to throw what looks like an incredibly harsh blow, Snow knows she can’t be lying down for this. It’s on her feet or not at all. Her legs buckle and she rolls, ungraceful but mechanically operational, onto all fours all the easier to push upright. 

But the expected crash of pain and magic doesn’t come. 

And when she looks up again, Regina’s arm is restrained by Emma. 

“Go.” Whispers her daughter, not looking down at her. “Go now.”

It’s awful and strained, those seconds it takes to finally get steady on her feet. 

“But…” The words die off into a plea. “Emma?”

Two of Emma’s hands hold Regina’s one fist in hers, a seemingly casual gesture, but the tendons on Emma’s forearm pulse to prove how much effort is being expended. Regina’s eyes betray nothing but the knowledge of how close Snow actually came to harm. 

“I’ve got it.” Is her answer. “Take James, wait outside the gate with all the team. I’ll let you know.”

She wants to argue, wants to continue pleading, but there is something inviolate about Emma’s stance, her words, the way her voice rings out. 

Whatever is going to be said no longer has anything to do with Snow. 

And once again it comes down to this, to Snow walking away and leaving Emma in the belly of the beast. 

She should bend down right now and sweep up her sword, take one mighty good swing and slice a hefty chunk out of Regina, if not separate her head from her neck, but she won’t. She is powerless against Emma. 

It’s as if she’s seeing it for the first time, everything that everyone has claimed about her. 

Snow has always known, since she held the squirming, bloody babe in her arms, that Emma was special. She felt drawn to her as Mary Margaret, and after the curse broke she has accepted the versions as fact. 

Emma is the saviour. Emma had the power of true love behind her. Emma was made of her own magic. Powerful beings would be drawn to her. She is the white knight. She is the hero of the piece. 

She has heard and accepted it all as fact, as a mother knowing for certain that their child is special. 

But this, this is first-hand knowledge, fact, undeniable proof. This is seeing Emma rise up and exude the power that draws people, the wrong people, to her. 

This is her heart breaking. 

“Regina.” But neither of them are even looking at her anymore. “Please…”

The door opens with a loud crack, wind howling as the stale, stagnant air suddenly begins to flow, and Snow is thrown carelessly out to the cold. She barely feels the arms that catch her, her lungs struggling to breathe as she watches the doors slam shut again. Solid and final and unpassable. 

She’s on the outside. 

“What…?” James, angry and worried and with her once again. “Snow, what happened?”

“I took a gamble.” Is all she can say, leaning back into her husband. “It was the wrong one.”

***

Emma waits, hands clenching around Regina’s. 

She waits, realising she’s trembling, unable to let go, fully expecting Regina to turn on her. That the magic she saw push her mother out the door, a body that she can only trust landed without harm before the doors closed, that magic will focus on her next. 

It will hurt, that much she knows, that much she has been conditioned to expect. 

Her muscles tighten, her breath stops completely, the seconds tick by and her lungs burn. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, when it all becomes too much. “I’m sorry, but… but not Snow.”

When Regina finally turns to her, she sees it, that the trembling is not only hers, but Regina’s as well. That there is a fine line being drawn that separates them both from this moment and one of excruciating pain. 

“Not Snow.”

It’s a reiteration. An underlying, the remembrance of exactly the premise that has bought them here. 

Emma, for the sake of everyone else. 

When Regina does move, breaking the breathless eternity, pulling her arm free, Emma flinches. But it is not pain that finds her. Regina’s hands grip the sides of her ribs, high under her arms, pulling her further upright and pushing her at the same time. 

She is propelled backwards, blindly, feet sprawling and scraping against the floor until she trips, her right ankle scraping harshly as she falls and Regina falls on top her. As they slam together, Emma has the bizarre thought that they’d been headed for the wall, for her to be pressed there yet again. 

But the floor it is and Emma doesn’t struggle, merely gasps at the pain as she feels her newly stitched abdomen tear open again when Regina pulls her wrists up above her head. 

Above her, Regina’s eyes narrow, taking her in. 

Holding both her hands in one of hers, Regina moves her right hand back down between them. Emma breathes in, expecting the familiar rush of magic to steal her clothes, to begin the same old dance yet again. 

Instead, she feels a strange rippling sensation and looks up to see Regina looking down, brows furrowed as her hand circles the now lessening pain. Emma can feel the flesh knitting back together. 

“Stop hurting me.” Emma breathes. “That’s what I want. That’s what I ask.”

Her head falls back to the ground, skull thunking thick on the floor. 

That’s what it boils down to. Everything she came here for. If she can get that, the rest will follow. 

She hears a murmur, a miniscule near silent rumble from somewhere deep inside Regina’s throat. And it could be _okay_ and it could be _go to hell_ , but she has no chance to decipher it before her mouth is covered by the slick wet heat of Regina’s. 

“You’re mine.” Regina growls when she finally pulls back and it’s not an answer. “Mine.”

It’s not something she should remember hearing, it’s not something she’s ever really felt or been before. Emma Swan is an outcast, a loner, poor little orphan Emma, shuffled from one place to the next, pushed away so many times it was easier just to run first. 

But the word sparks something visceral and acidic in her gut as Regina straddles her hips and settles herself more comfortably, something bad, something long buried that flashes in her brain. 

“No.” It starts small, just a tiny little pull of her wrists that barely makes either of them blink. But the futility of the move, the absolute surety Regina has in her grip on her wrists, makes Emma yank harder, causes her brain to short out in a growing panic. “No. No. No!”

The struggle is harsh and desperate and quick, Emma finally jerking her hands free and scratching even as she begins bucking. 

It’s surprise more than anything else that gives her the ability to get this far. It’s nothing Regina hasn’t said before, nothing Emma hasn’t responded to in a rote call and response routine a hundred times. There is nothing and there should be nothing different about this time. 

“Emma. My Pet.” Regina rides her bucking easily, remaining upright, flailing to recapture Emma’s thrashing arms before they do any more damage. “Calm down, Emma!”

She can’t even say herself what’s different. 

It’s a thick swarming blanket of molasses that finally captures her, holds her in a stasis against the ground, a change in air pressure, invisible and inescapable. 

“You’re learning bad habits.” 

Is all Regina can hiss as she stands up, ousting herself from the cradle of Emma’s hips. 

They’re both panting hard and Emma feels the backs of her shoulders scrape against the floor, harsh bitter movements whilst Regina paces like a wild animal. 

“What do you want from me?” She manages it against the invisible bonds holding her down. “What haven’t I given you?”

That’s when Regina stops. 

Suddenly calm and deathly still. 

“What I’ve always wanted.” And Emma barely has time to prepare herself before Regina aims a finger. “My happy ending.”

The pain electrifies her nerve endings and Emma’s back arches as she cries out. 

Nothing has been solved.   
***


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are children, all of them, playing at war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid.  
>  **Spoilers:** Everything aired, the entire first season.  
>  **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary:** Use me, don't abuse me.

***

Snow blows heated air onto the tips of her fingers. 

Years ago, she would have been foraging through the woods herself looking for kindling, and now she sits and waits for someone to bring it to her. She misses the need of movement, this idleness is doing nothing for her thought processes. 

Yet there are tens of dozens of people ready to do her bidding, insisting she sit and rest. Others still are feeding and tending the horses, covering them with blankets. And still more are preparing meagre rations. And she’s left to sit on a fallen log nursing her aching hip. As if she’s infirm. As if she’s still pregnant. As if she’s as useless as she feels. 

There are fires all around, spaced out evenly, each one circled by groups of people. All outside Regina’s gates, just like Emma asked. 

“Snow.” James squats next to her, his body jerky and awkward, giving off a restrained feel. He’s just as caged as she is. “We should do something.”

Snow picks up a stick and pushes the edge of it into the crackling flames, watching the sparks fly up from the embers. 

“We are.” She says simply. “We’re waiting.”

“For what?” Red is to her left, eyes wide and curious. “We came for battle and now…?”

For the last hour she has sat here and wondered the same thing. 

“I could go wolf.” Red suggests, slyly. “I could walk through the gates human and turn once I’m in, the wards won’t get me then.”

It’s true. And this is exactly why they bought Red. She is more powerful in wolf form than anyone else on their side and they have used her before. But no matter how eager Red sounds, how willingly she offers to do this, Snow is reluctant. She remembers the dark times when she was still in hiding, when Red had first found out about the wolf, the things it had done to her. 

She doesn’t want to do that again, not now, not unless it’s strictly necessary. 

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Red is friends with Emma too, this is Snow’s trusted companion of many years, but now it is clear. Red’s eyes are wide and her face is pained, she is worried and sick and frustrated with their inactivity. 

With the possibility of whatever is happening behind closed doors. 

“You think I’m not worried?” Snow addresses both of them. “You think I’m happy about this?”

They don’t respond and even though she’s watching the twisting, undulating flames of the fire, she can sense the look they share over her head. 

Their concern, their need for action is not unwarranted, nor is it hard to understand. But neither of them saw the scene that Snow saw, they weren’t they and so they couldn’t possibly understand why Snow is now sitting and waiting. 

“She was right.” She says it quietly and it’s almost lost in the roar of their surrounds. “She should have come alone.”

She is acutely aware of the interest of their entire party, the looks given out the sides of everyone’s eyes as they huddle around their own fires. They are waiting for a sign, a signal to action, and the longer they wait the more confusion begins to reign in them. 

They are children, all of them, playing at war. And she is the worst of them all. 

It seems absurd now, stupid, to have loaded everyone up and come storming across the land. She doesn’t want to kill Regina, she never has, bloodlust has never been part of her regime. Caught in the moment of anger, utter despair at seeing Emma broken on the floor in front of her, she had foolishly begun something she no longer wants to finish. 

They should turn around and go home, but she doubts even she could persuade them to leave without some sort of clear signal. 

And so they wait. 

“Snow.” James begins again, a soft hand on the back of her shoulder, and she realises suddenly that he is trying to gentle her, soothe, approach her like he would a wild animal. “Someone should go.”

He’s a fool, they are all fools. 

Nobody is going in there. She won’t let them. Her stomach trembles and she shivers at the thought. It would be obscene, she thinks, if someone were to witness anything similar to what she’d seen or worse. Voyeurism at its worst. 

This is something that Emma and Regina are going to have to work out for themselves. 

“You can’t go.” But she cannot tell James that as she rounds on him, does not know if he would understand. “She was going to kill me, do you get it? And she’d kill you, too. I honestly think she’d kill anyone who tried…”

The words die off on her tongue. She can’t say them out loud. 

Has no vocabulary to explain the proprietary expressions on Regina’s face, the way that one look made Snow believe that any harm coming to Emma from any source other than Regina, would result in agonizingly slow deaths for all involved. 

Because that’s not merely possession, it’s not using someone to torture another.

And now Snow has to believe that the teeniest little glimpse of compassion she’d seen in those eyes was not alone, that with some nurturing it would blossom. 

She is thinking the unthinkable and it galls her to admit, Rumplestiltskin may have been right. 

***

Emma waits a count of five in her head. 

When there is nothing else, she curls her body into a comma on her side, just for a breath, just enough to release oxygen into all of her muscles, before rolling over and pushing herself up onto her knees again. 

Being upright leaves her slightly dizzy, but it’s an instant to find the dark, blinkless eyes watching her. 

When the energy first hit it was pain, but it hadn’t taken Emma long to realise that it wasn’t bad as much as unexpected. It had been nothing compared to other things Regina had put her through, a quick reprimand really, a release of tensions. Easily tolerated. 

_Be careful, Emma._ She warns herself. _You’ll be telling people you walked into a door, next._

And then she laughs inside her head, because if there’s one thing she is right now it’s broken and there is nobody in this realm left who would believe her if she tried to justify this relationship with Regina anyway. 

But the pain hadn’t lasted, had barely even been there to begin with. 

Every time she made a move to get up, she was pushed back down to the ground by invisible hands, a blanketing force that felt as if it was going to smother her. At one point, she can barely remember when, her clothes had disappeared. It seems to have made all the difference, this shift, Emma’s non reaction and lack of fighting against her nudity. 

Because this time Emma remains upright and Regina is looking right at her from where she has settled herself on her ornate chair. 

Waiting, interested to see what she’ll do. 

A magnetic pull draws her forward and pure habit means the journey is on her hands and knees, crawling, right hand working with the left knee and left hand working with the right knee, spine dipping her abdomen towards the floor. 

It should be harder than this, she should be fighting with everything she has and hours ago she was ready to do just that. But now, at her feet, all she can see is her Queen and it seems like the simplest, most obvious choice. 

There’s been a seismic shift, she has seen too much to go back now and no matter how cold she pretends to be, Emma has seen the cracks, the brittle edge, and knows that right now, right this very second, more fighting is inadvisable at best. 

This is a time for reassurance, to redefine and redraw the rules. 

There is no real thought involved, Regina sits on her throne like the Queen she once was, hands planted firmly on the arm rests, feet planted firmly on the floor, back straight and barely a muscle moves as she looks down. 

And Emma leans forward, sitting on her heels, brushing the bone of Regina’s left knee with her lips. It’s not even a kiss, just a press of flesh as her eyes look up. It is not anger that greets her in the stillness of Regina’s face, the sparkle of interest in her eyes. 

So she does it again, a little further this time, a definite kiss to the material of a skirted thigh. It’s the merest flicker of an eyelash. Emma has not been here for many weeks, but this is a language that is second nature to her now, reading the flickers of reaction Regina tries to hide. Sitting up straighter now, off her heels, feeling safer in her quest, she presses the front of her body against Regina’s shins as she turns her face to the left and kisses the warm flesh of Regina’s right forearm. 

She takes a moment to rest her cheek on the knuckles of the hand there. It is too much to hope that Regina will turn her hand, curl her fingers over Emma’s skin, give her that much comfort. There is no movement at all, but she does allow Emma’s progress and that’s something. 

Shaking a little, waiting for the command to stop, Emma brings her hands up to slide her fingers in under each of Regina’s wrists, gripping the wood of the chair as she pushes up to her feet, all with the side of her cheek against the woman’s unresponsive skin, the slide of her cheek, a nuzzle, a kiss. 

Then Emma makes the boldest move of her life, unable to look away from the eagle sharp eyes that bore into her as she straightens and then settles herself on Regina’s lap, one knee on either side of her thighs. 

Sensing the shift that occurs, the tightening of Regina’s fists at the end of her arms, Emma immediately sits back and lets go of the arm rests, taking her hands away from Regina altogether. This is not a time to battle for control. 

Stretching her arms behind her back, Emma presses her forearms together, elbow to wrist, twining them around each other, linking and fusing to grasp her fingers into one giant clenched fist. The position stretches her ribs, her shoulders, pushes out her breasts and makes her completely immobile except for the ducking of her head and spine. 

She uses it to continue her kisses, soft pecks and light presses against Regina’s arms and up to her shoulder and neck. When she reaches the jugular vein, a miniscule rumble of a moan sounds from above her and she smiles, opening her mouth further to suck flesh in. 

“Emma.” It’s a low growled warning, but actions always speak louder than words and she can feel the hands that slide down her body to curl around her waist and hold her in position. “What are you doing?”

“You said.” Kiss. “You wanted.” Kiss. “To Be.” Slide of lips along the sensitive skin of neck underneath an ear. “Happy.” 

She feels the denial in the tenseness of flesh underneath and around her and Emma sits back to dare a look at the woman’s face. Regina chin is set in a stubborn clench and her eyes are pointed black darts, but Emma prefers to listen to the hot fingers that cup her skin softly. 

“And you think _you_ have the power to make me happy when all else has failed?” Regina’s soft, deep drawl of cruelty is another warning Emma chooses to ignore. “Just how arrogant are you?”

There’s a danger in that question, a danger in her answer, Emma’s skin tightens just a little at the thought of how quickly this could escalate and how much Regina would love to punish an imagined sin. 

She doesn’t respond, except to bend her neck and upper spine further, placing a long, wet, horizontal stripe of tongue across the skin of Regina’s chest bursting out the top of her corset. Her shoulder blades ache with constriction, but she ignores it for the sudden intake of breath Regina gives her and when Regina tilts her head back allowing her more room to move, she takes it as a good sign. 

Emma has been twisted around so many times, like a blindfolded child playing party games, that she can no longer see the straight line she used to walk, doesn’t even know if she wants to. All she can see and all she can feel is this: this strangely contented pride in pleasing her Queen. 

Despite what everyone else tries to make it, the looks in their eyes and the nervous way they change the topic, the way they fight for the wrong things in the wrong way, even the way Regina tries to play it, Emma knows, she feels it, there is nothing wrong or shameful about giving in. 

“Stop lashing out.” It’s a whisper, barely audible, a plea against hot, flushed skin. “Stop hurting me so badly.”

Regina’s skin tastes like salt and sweat, the swirling dregs of spent emotion, and it shivers, jumps under her mouth as she closes her teeth softly against a sharp collar bone and nips. Not hard, barely enough to be felt, certainly nowhere near enough to leave a mark. Merely a punctuation of her words. The call for an answer this time. 

“Why?” Comes the unaffected voice above her, calm, but at least no longer cruel. “Why would I do that when you cry so prettily? When every time I do it makes you mine?”

Emma drops her face into the crook of Regina’s neck, holds it there until the words form in her brain, until they take on some vague form of coherency. 

“Because.” She reasons to the outside edge of a shoulder. “If you stop the unnecessary pain, you will have me. I’ll give you everything.”

Waiting for an answer is torture, it’s unbearable and leaves her jittery and wired. She might wait forever, knowing what she does about Regina and so Emma does the only thing she can, the only thing she knows she is allowed to do right now. 

She continues peppering kisses, some light and some not so, opening her mouth against the skin and sucking lumps of it between her teeth. Her spine bends, over and over, undulating to accommodate the movement. All this does is cause her entire body to rock with it, back and forth. 

The hands tighten against her hips, but Emma realises in less than a second that they’re not trying to hold her still, they’re pulling and pushing her harder, rocking her hips against the crumpled, seated pelvis of her Queen. 

“Please.” It comes out like a broken whimper. “Please My Queen.”

Regina letting go is an exhalation of air, one hand rising to twist itself in Emma’s hair and pull her head backwards, the other sliding up and across her abdomen, further, to cup her breast and worry her nipple. And her mouth, Regina’s mouth, sealing itself hungrily over her neck, sucking greedily to the point that Emma can feel the blood cells rushing to the skin. 

When she rocks down, Regina rocks up, and they’re stuck in this desperate, frantic pulse. 

Neck bent back, Emma moans at the feel of Regina’s right hand twisting her left nipple, her belly arched forward. 

“You weren’t going to kill me.”

It’s a gasped exhalation that rocks her. 

“No.” A hurried reply, desperate as she shakes her head against the hand trying to hold it still. “Never.”

“No matter what I do to you.” It’s spoken so calmly, so deep in thought, that it is stunning coupled with the frantic clawing of hands pinching and pulling her. “You’re always the white knight. You don’t want to hurt me back.”

Emma hears it, that sense of awe. 

The inability to understand any other reaction to so much pain. 

“People tried to break me a long time ago, long before you.” The hand in her hair lets go and slides casually down her skull to the back of her neck and further, flattening itself on her spine. “Doesn’t mean I have to let them.”

Regina doesn’t respond, but Emma feels it anyway, that curious and despairing _how?_

She has no time to react, however, as Regina surges forward at the same time as pulling Emma closer, smashing their bodies together. It’s hungry, this kiss, mouth closing in on hers, tongue immediately seeking entrance as the hand on her breast drops down gracelessly to thrust between her legs. 

It’s going to be fast, she knows it, can feel it in the way Regina doesn’t stop to wait for her. Not that she needs it. Her body took a ridiculously short time to tune itself to Regina’s needs and today is no different. Arms pulled back, shoulders stretched and straining almost to the point of pain, Emma feels the pleasure flood down through between her legs. 

Her mouth is next to Regina’s ear, bodies pressed together and she gives Regina what she wants to hear, what she always wants, a whimper, the small, scrabbled sounds of desperation. As her reward, Regina adds first one finger, then two with a hum of approval. 

“Emma?”

A question. Calm and even. One she is all too ready to answer. 

“Yours.” The litany is back, like it never left. “Always.”

Then Regina bites down on her neck and corkscrews her fingers and Emma comes. 

Panting, her body falls completely forward, even as her hands let go and her arms fall heavily and uselessly to the side as she slumps down against Regina, boneless like a ragdoll. 

She wants to wake up, wants to finish the job, wants to tear Regina’s clothes off and make her cry out, but there is no hope for that now. Not when she is so wiped, emotionally and physically, not when Regina isn’t pushing her off and away or pulling her up to insist she finish. Certainly not when Regina has wound her arms around Emma and holds her close. 

Emma rests her forehead in the cradle of Regina’s neck and closes her eyes to the feel of fingers stroking up and down her spine. 

***

_A quick look at the clock in the kitchen says it’s half past eight, but Emma’s stomach could easily have told her that._

_She doesn’t want to be here, the light already bled out of the house until it’s awash with inky blue darkness, nothing but shadows. She had slipped as fast as she could out of her room, down the halls, just to check. But of course Shelley her foster mom isn’t home. She’s never home._

_This trip to the kitchen will probably be a waste, too, but the gnawing pit of her belly is making it hard to stay concentrated on homework. That’s what she does on the nights Shelley isn’t home. It’s why she’s made such great grades these last two months._

_Most likely, she thinks darkly as she opens the fridge, Shelley is out scoring again. Or tricking until she can score. If she’s not home yet, she won’t be home at all._

_Of course the fridge is basically empty. There’s half a six pack of beer left, but she knows better than to touch that. A packet of slimy luncheon meat that she can smell without leaning down. A grimy bottle of ketchup in the door. The cupboards don’t prove much better. A few cans of vegetables and a crumpled box of crackers shoved way to the back._

_Desperate, Emma grabs the crackers and pulls back, unable to stop the feeling of elation at this humble prize. Her fingers tear the opening of the box trying to get inside, but the only thing she finds is a plastic baggie._

_Her hand rears back as if burned and she shoves the box back in the cupboard, hot tears slipping out the corner of her eye, which she wipes away viciously. To underscore her predicament, her stomach knots in on itself, grinding painfully as it lets out a growl of its own._

_During the week, at least, she could wait until lunch at school. But today is Saturday and tomorrow is Sunday._

_She has no real choice but to go back to her room and hope Shelley stumbles home sometime in the morning. Possibly with food._

_“Hey Emma.”_

_For a split second, long enough for her to close her eyes in a blink and open them again, Emma feels dread pool heavy in her abdomen._

_“Hey Karl.” She gives a shrug. “I didn’t know you were home.”_

_At sixteen, he’s only three years older than her, but there is a world apart in their ages. Long and lanky, he leans against the wall next to her door, dark eyes appraising her up and down. It makes her feel awkward, stuck in faded ill-fitting jeans and an oversized tee._

_“Yeah.” He shrugs back. “My friend Tommy’s here. Come say hi.”_

_Karl is not as original as he likes to think in his studded collar. Emma has seen a lot of moody, rebellious teens in her life. They’re practically a standard at the home. He’s about five piercings, two tattoos and a tube of eyeliner short of being notable. He’s another one that stays out late, if he comes home at all, surrounded by a group of friends as edgy as he pretends to be._

_This house is nothing but a wayside stop for all involved. All Emma has to do is wait it out and not make waves, well aware of her role as another cheque for Shelley._

_“Uh…” She gestures towards the door he’s almost blocking. “I’m just going to study.”_

_He has an eager, glassy look in his eye that makes her wary._

_She is thirteen, she is not stupid. It’s practically impossible to grow up in the system and not know about the warning signs of men’s eyes. She’s not unaware of the appeal she has, boys look at her all the time no matter how little effort she pays to herself and her grooming. A simple ponytail swept back and no makeup, not like the painted girls that look down their noses at her in class with her simple clothes._

_And Karl would not be the first danger she’s faced before, if he turns out to be one at all. She’s been lucky so far, having been able to avoid confrontation, unlike some of the girls she has known. She only had to really fight once, against her last foster mom’s boyfriend, but she’d gotten away and sent back to the home. Lucky. That’s all she has to do, she keeps telling herself, stay lucky._

_“Don’t be a bitch, Emma.” His frown is put on, overblown, trying to be funny. “Besides, we have pizza.”_

_Her eyes narrow. Alert now, hating herself, she takes a careful whiff and smells the vague hint of cheese and hot bread. It curls into her nostrils and slides all the way into her hunger, releasing a flood of saliva down her teeth._

_He can sense her weakening and reaches forward to grab her wrist._

_“Just come get some food, then you can go. I know you’re hungry: that bitch never buys anything she can’t shove in her veins. God, we don’t bite.”_

_She should pull away, should snap her wrist back, but another boy stands in the doorway to Karl’s room, the already named Tommy, and he has a slice in his hand, hot and steaming. His eyes are warm and friendly. He doesn’t send off the warning bells in her head and it makes her feel foolish to worry so much._

_“Ok.” It’s a mumble. “But not too long.”_

_Karl closes the door behind them as they enter his room, but Emma doesn’t blink as she eyes the walls. She hasn’t been in here before, preferring to stay away from the dark dankness of a teen boy’s habitat. There’s a funny smell just underneath the tangy, tantalising scent of pizza, but she doesn’t know what it is._

_Posters, dark and intimidating like the walls, there are books and clothes everywhere. The room itself feels foggy._

_“Here.” Tommy shoves the pizza into her hand with an awkward smile and gestures towards the bed. “Sit.”_

_She does, finding a space on the edge for her hip._

_They talk and she learns that Tommy is a junior at a nearby high school, that he plays guitar and wants to quit school so he can start a band, but his dad is an overbearing asshole. And he hates his mom. Karl, she suddenly realises that she hasn’t ever really talked to him in the months she has been here, was left at a shopping mall when he was three. He vaguely remembers a woman he thinks might be his mom, but he has no love for her._

_Like Emma, he bounces regularly through the system._

_They laugh and most of the times Emma gets the jokes, sometimes she doesn’t but she puts on a fake smile and laughs anyway, and the more time she spends with them, the more comfortable she gets. She hasn’t really had any friends for a long time._

_The pizza is long gone, nothing but a greasy box by the time Karl pulls out a thin, knobbly cigarette and quirks his head._

_“You smoke, Emma?”_

_And she wrinkles her nose._

_“No. It’s bad for you.”_

_Both of them laugh and Tommy is the one to lean over._

_“Not _that_ kind of smoking.”_

_It takes her several minutes to fully catch their meaning and when she does, things become a little darker in the room. She stands up, clearly indicating her plan to leave well before she speaks, but Karl already has the joint lit and he reaches out to grab her wrist again._

_“You wanna try it?”_

_She’s well aware of their eyes, the glassiness making more sense now, and her fingers curl trapped in his as she shakes her head._

_“It’s awesome.” Tommy’s voice cajoles from behind her, still sitting back on the bed. “You won’t be sorry.”_

_Something is telling her to run, run fast, but her feet aren’t moving._

_“No.” It comes out as a whisper and even at thirteen, Emma knows that just won’t do, so she clears her throat and says it again, louder and more forceful. “No.”_

_But she’s too late, unaware of Tommy standing up, having taken a lungful of sweet, herb smoked breath. And Karl holds her wrist so she can’t move far as Tommy grabs her face, hands on either cheek, holding her head hard and still as he covers her mouth and nose with his lips._

_And she thought he was the nice one._

_She resists, of course she does, but the smoke curls into her mouth, up her nostrils, down her throat and into her lungs. She can feel the threads of it begin to sing through her blood. And the fight begins to just float away._

_“Oh.” She says as she blinks. “Oh.”_

_They laugh at her again and Tommy slides a hand down her cheek and over her neck._

_Karl pulls her against him then, eyes gleaming down at her as he takes a long suck of the joint.  
His mouth is harder and more forceful and his hands dig into her upper arms as they hold her still, she tries not to breathe, but in the end it’s impossible and as she opens her mouth she feels it curling further into her system as her blood begins to pound a thready pulse in her ears. _

_She’s vaguely aware of some silent conversation between them, some decision being made, all she can really do is lick at her teeth._

_At some point, she is aware of being pushed back to the bed, her body crumpling like a concertina until she’s lying on her back. Her mumbled plea comes out more like a breathy giggle, but they don’t listen and she feels them lying down, one on each side of her._

_“Just like that.” She thinks she hears Karl whisper at her. “That’s right.”_

_And one of them kisses her again, forcing more of the smoke into her mouth._

_Sound is a funny thing, blood pumping in her ear, the harsh rasping of breath over teeth, a tongue scraping up the side of her neck. Her body is dulled and unresponsive to her demands and she feels strange, so strange, as if she could float and sink at the same time._

_Images flick through her brain, some she remembers and others she’s sure have to be made up, probably from movies and TV, an assault of colour and shapes and sounds._

_There is a clang of metal on metal as she floats._

_Then she feels it, the slide of a hand down the front of her jeans._

_-Stay lucky- her brain manages to tell her._

_Woozy and thick and head fogged as she is, Emma jack-knives up, struggling hard and yelling loud. A hand grabs her shoulder to pull her back down and she spins, instinct, and slams the heel of her palm into a face. There’s a satisfying crunch sound, before she realizes she is free and she scrambles off the bed, throwing herself at the door and fidgeting uselessly at the lock for a second before it gives._

_She doesn’t look back as she runs, out of the room, out of the house, down three blocks south to the playground where she finds a tree and climbs it until she’s hidden in the branches and leaves._

_It’s dark and she’s partly high and she can’t stop the harsh, ragged breaths hitching harsh against her ribs. A nightbird hoots nearby and her pulse skyrockets, making her hiss in fear. A branch twig snaps and she jerks into rigidity._

_Twelve hours chills her bones as her brain flashes in and out, picking up weird sounds amid the leaves that sing lullabies in her ear and convincing her that each one means her certain death. Or worse. Twelve hours before they find her and coax her down, limbs rigid with fear, the left over dregs of adrenaline and exposure._

_Two days later finds her sitting across from Betty, her caseworker, a short, overweight woman with unwashed hair._

_“You can’t keep starting fights, Emma.”_

_Emma looks down, she has one foot up on the seat of her chair, knee bent up close to her face, and she picks at her worn tennis shoes as she shrugs._

_“It wasn’t my fault.”_

_“You broke his nose!” A sigh. “You’re getting too old to try and act cute. Nobody’s going to want to foster out a troubled kid. Do you want to be stuck at the home for the next five years?”_

_There are a lot of things she could say in her defence, the truth being one of them, but the truth never helps in these sorts of situations. This is a fact she has learned about life, hard and unyielding. She knows there was once a time, not too long ago if she thinks about it, where she would have begged and pleaded and strove to set the record straight, defend herself._

_But there really is no point._

_So she shrugs again and rolls her eyes._

_“Just stamp the papers, Betty. If we get back to the home by one, I can still get lunch.”_

***

It’s the middle of the night when the first attack comes. 

James wouldn’t necessarily call it an attack, though, so much as a military strategy. A warning, a not too subtle suggestion that they pick up and go home. 

Most everyone is sleeping, camped out in whatever makeshift sleeping arrangement could be found, the ground, a blanket, soft leafy underbrush. The lucky few sleep in the wagons. He made sure Snow slept comfortably, not that anybody really wanted to fight her for the privilege. Snow belongs to the people, no matter how she tries to deny it, and they love her dearly. 

A few keep watch. Speckled sentries spread among the low burning campfires of the ramshackle campground, figures flickering in the orange flame glows. 

Sleet rain hits them, almost a solid wall, at such an acute, driving angle that he has no doubt that this is not natural weather phenomenon. Aimed as it is from Regina’s castle itself, it seems to want to push them back. 

Men and women scramble for cover, grabbing their blankets to hold over their heads and trying not to be blown over, heading in scattered directions with no real purpose. James plants his feet wide and braces himself against the force, He tries to call for calm, but his words are lost in melee. Searching for the wagons some distance away, he cannot see Snow or even any sign if she has risen. 

This could get ugly if he doesn’t do something. 

He watches, helpless, as a larger man steps on the back of another in the haste to get away. Somebody runs straight through the embers of a dying fire, dislodging the rocks that keep it safe. A scream makes him spin to the left. 

Water pelts him, tries to throw him off balance, it feels like it’s causing bruises on his skin, under his clothes. 

“Halt!” He yells it as loud as he can, unused to being ignored. It has no effect at all and so he raises his sword and yells again. “Halt!”

The words, unsurprisingly, are lost against the pounding rain and general panic, but he hopes the visual is striking enough to catch people’s eye. There seems to be little effect, apart from a few random people close by him stopping to look, and he is desperately trying to think of something else to do when he spots her out of the corner of his eye. 

Red is some fifteen horse lengths away, a lone figure standing still, and when he sees her she nods and raises her own sword. He can’t hear her, but he knows she’s copying him. And further, beyond, he sees Grumpy do the same. Turning, he watches some officers standing still, islands among the sea of people. 

Eventually people take notice, beginning to take stock and eventually calming down. There’s an awkward, shuffling feel to the way people stand, shy and embarrassed after being caught in the midst of chaos for no reason. The rain still pelts them, hard and relentless, but it is beginning to dawn on them that it is merely water. 

He sends a thank you nod to Red. 

Snow finds him, awake and alert and wet, but the sleep is still evident in the corners of her eyes. His mussed and lovely wife. 

“Regina?”

It’s a soft question, small, and he nods, unsure of the meaning behind it. 

“Regina.”

Red joins them along with Phillip and three dwarves, Grumpy, Sneezy and Dopey. 

“This could have been a lot worse.” Red says what they’re all thinking. “If she had really wanted to hurt us.”

The storm is gone, as quickly and suddenly as it came, leaving behind a confused mob. They will need to hold an impromptu counsel, settle everyone’s nerves, create some plan to prevent this sort of widespread chaos and panic. An army frightened at any suggestion they’re being attacked by an Evil Queen is no army at all. 

That a simple trick panicked them all so quickly and totally is worrisome. 

“She wants us gone.”

He says it. To them. To himself. To everyone listening. 

Snow draws her cape tighter around her shoulders, straightening her spine and setting her jaw. 

“Not without Emma. We need to make sure she’s okay.”

James looks around to the crowd forming around them, the sleep ruffled, rain soaked, shivering brethren ready to follow he and Snow, no matter where or why. For Emma. For their princess that gave them back their lives, that sacrificed her own so they could keep those lives. 

He wants to ask Snow if Emma will ever be okay enough for her, if there will ever be any point she’ll be satisfied enough to leave. 

This is a decades old feud. One that existed long before he met Snow and, he fears, will exist long after he is gone. It runs much deeper than he knows or can imagine and he already knows more than any of the people here willing to risk their lives. 

“What makes you think she’s coming back?” The question shocks her, he can see it in the widening of her eyes, but her face gives no other sign of the hurt. “What makes you think she hasn’t made her choice already?”

The glare she gives him is full of Mary Margaret. 

“She didn’t make that choice. Not freely.”

The people around them are a vague abstract. He knows they are there, but they have somehow fallen to the back of his mind as he looks down at his headstrong, stubborn, beautiful, grief torn wife. Her eyes flick back and forth, searching his, looking for something he is not sure he can give her anymore. 

He will not fall back. 

“Maybe at first.” He’s surprised at how even his voice sounds, controlled, because it’s certainly not how he feels. “But she’s been slipping, you know she has. This is how Regina works.”

Her denial is too resolute, too forceful not to be a shield, and she shakes her head. 

“You didn’t see!” It’s flung at him like an accusation, but he knows Snow better than she knows herself and so he lets it roll off his skin. “She didn’t cry on your shoulder! You weren’t the one that nursed her back!”

It hurts her to say these things, he can tell. The very idea of Emma broken is painful for them all, but he thinks Snow feels it that much more. He thinks Mary Margaret loved Emma back in Storybrooke, the wayward waif forgotten by the world, the underdog who fought back and continued fighting, the grown woman who needed a mother more than anything. 

“You can’t tell her how to feel, Snow.”

No, he did not play that role for Emma, but in turn he saw a side of her that Snow did not. 

“I’m not telling her anything.” She says eventually, a muted glare poking out underneath the brows that are inching together, but he sees the warmth behind her eyes. “I just need her to tell us she’s fine.”

But the truth of the matter is that maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s in a position where she cannot call out or reach for help, even if she needs it. It’s possible she is fine, that she’s merely discussing things evenly, that she’s even happy right now. It’s not even out of the realms of possibility that she is under a spell and has no idea who they or even she is. They do not know, there is no way of knowing. 

And that’s the real problem. 

***

_She probably shouldn’t be surprised._

_It’s only her second year of teaching, but already Rachel has picked up the patterns of troubled teens. Most of the little smartasses will go into hiding, telling each how cool and edgy they are sneaking cigarettes behind the gym where no one will see. They’re the ones she doesn’t worry about. It’s the really troubled kids that don’t hide, that just don’t care enough to bother, they’re the ones she watches._

_She finds Emma leaning against the wall, not too far from the door, casually dragging on a cigarette not thirty yards from the staff parking lot. Tall and gangly, dark mascara ringing her eyes and dark roots in her hair, she looks every bit as young as her fifteen years, desperately trying to be older._

_“There you are.”_

_As if Emma has been hiding._

_If she was expecting any reaction other than an unimpressed raised eyebrow, she would be disappointed. Not even the briefest flicker of an attempt to hide the contraband in her hand._

_They’ve talked before and Rachel thinks they’ve come to some sort of genial acceptance of each other. She doesn’t dare assume she has Emma’s trust. The girl is brittle and sharp and all bark no bite. A contradiction, surely, she has caught Rachel’s eye, strong and vulnerable and angry and defensive and desperate for a friend._

_“What was all that?”_

_Referring, of course, to the scene the girl just made in her classroom._

_Emma shrugs, but Rachel raises her eyebrow in a mirror to the girl’s previous stance. All, or at least most, of her students have learned that she doesn’t back down and it’s just easier to give in and talk. She is one of those Teachers Who Care and time has yet to beat that out of her._

_After a sigh, Emma flicks the end of her cigarette, spilling ash over the ground, almost daring Rachel to say something as she brings it back up to her mouth for a drag. It is patently obvious that this is something she has done before, something she is accustomed to, and so no amount of preaching on Rachel’s part will make a difference. This much she knows._

_“It’s bullshit.” Emma spits out eventually. “What you were saying…”_

_It’s nothing more than what she expected._

_“All of it?” She prods. “Or just the part you reacted to?”_

_‘Reacted’ is a polite term for the display Emma put on in the classroom, standing up so quickly and forcefully that her chair had skidded back and toppled over, swearing at the class in general and very specifically towards Rachel herself before storming out._

_“That part about choice.” Emma drawls, spelling it out for the slow kid. “It’s bullshit. Not everyone gets to say no.”_

_It’s a challenge, a bright eyed brittle challenge just daring Rachel to call her out. She only knows the briefest, broad strokes of Emma’s personal history and current situation, but everyone in town knows Mrs Wilton and her reputation._

_“Emma.” She has to tread carefully, here against the wall, alone with this girl who trusts no one. “Are you trying to tell me something?”_

_When Emma laughs, it almost feels like relief._

_“What?” Another challenge. “Are you looking for a sob story about the poor, little foster girl? Abused by the big bad foster daddy? Sorry, not here.”_

_It’s obviously the wrong tack. She breathes in and regroups._

_“Are you happy at that house?” The question is too broad, too stock standard, and Emma shows her irritation with a roll of her eyes. “You’d tell me if her ex was hanging around, wouldn’t you?”_

_A snort bubbles out of Emma’s throat, a choked sound of disbelief._

_“Yeah. Ex. Right. He’s at that house more than I am.” And when Emma meets her eyes this time, Rachel shivers. “He’s not too bad, you know? I mean, yeah, he comes into my room sometimes when she’s asleep and tries stuff, but…”_

_Rachel’s heart stops beating. It actually stops. And Emma continues, casual and calm, like she’s discussing math problems or whether to bring an umbrella to school._

_“He’s just a big bear, really. I can talk him out of it, mostly. He’s one of the easy ones.”_

_There is nothing that is not wrong with that sentence and she cannot stop herself before the words come blurting out of her mouth._

_“We need to get you out of there.”_

_It’s visual, the defences that slam back up, the world weariness that oozes from her pores._

_“Yeah, okay.” Finally at the end, Emma stubs the cigarette out against the wall and Rachel pretends not to see the shaking hands that go with it. The sarcasm always precedes the truth, this she has noticed about Emma. “Look, you have no idea what you’re talking about, okay? What are you going to do? Call my social worker? Tell them all about it?”_

_And she nods, because this is exactly what she had planned to do._

_“I’m already labelled a problem case, do you know what that means? It means the nice families don’t take me home. It means I get the people who just need a meal ticket at best or want something else at worst.”_

_She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t need to._

_“And if I don’t get fostered? There’s no sweet little state run home for teens, it’s an institution that’s basically a glorified juvie hall. Only the worst girls go there. The older you get, the worse it is. I’m a fifteen year old virgin and you wanna put me in with 100 other angry, bitter girls who have been abused since before they could walk? They’ll tear me apart. I can’t go there, they’re feral.”_

_It’s hard, it’s bitten, it’s restrained, and Rachel barely even sees her blink when she says it. The words horrify her, stark and brutal, but they’re hardly a blip on Emma’s radar and all she wants to do now is fight for this girl, prove to her that there are people who care._

_“Look, like I said, he’s one of the easy ones. It’s a good house. I’ve only got a few more years until I’m eighteen. As long as I don’t get shafted to some other house with someone I can’t fight… it’s good like this. Just leave it.”_

_Helplessness swarms her veins and Rachel just wants to grab Emma’s shoulders and shake some sense into her._

_“You shouldn’t have to fight.” She doesn’t quite believe she has to say this. That anyone in this day and age would believe something so vile. “It shouldn’t be that way.”_

_The look Emma gives her is pure pity._

_“I’ve been fighting since I was twelve. Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed, right?” It’s deliberately offensive, spoken with bile and hatred and just enough biting humour that Rachel knows someone, somewhere, has said these words to her seriously, enough to hurt. “Look, don’t worry, I’ve been lucky so far. I know how to fight.”_

_She wants to wrap this woman child up in her arms, just pull her close and tell her everything is going to be alright._

_“That’s good.” She says instead. “That’s what I was telling the class. Why’d you get so upset?”_

_This time there is no rolling of the eyes, no defiant shrug of the shoulders or any other over blown obnoxious teen move._

_“Because I’ve been lucky for three years and I’ve still got two and half left in the system.” There are simply wide, honest eyes and a broken little acceptance of the truth. “And nobody’s that lucky.”_

_It’s too much, it’s all too much._

_“I can help you.” Rachel blurts, the idea growing before she can even process it and she carries on, eager to get it out before the obvious dismissal on Emma’s face hits full force. “Just listen, my cousin’s sister-in-law went through some of this, they’ve set up a program. You go and they help you find somewhere safe to live, help you through school, get scholarships to college, whatever you need.”_

_Whatever you need to stop become a forgotten statistic, Rachel thinks, dead from an overdose at twenty, a single mom at nineteen, someone’s punching bag for years or struggling beneath the breadline for her entire life._

_It’s the last option that sparks a tiny glimmer of hope in the girl’s eyes, the merest little flicker, and she tries to act disinterested when she asks after it._

_“College?” As if she’s never thought of it before, as if no one has ever told her she was allowed to think it. “I could go to college?”_

_Rachel’s mouth talks too fast for her brain, because it’s not a widely known program and they have little funding, it’s usually full at any given time and parading it in front of Emma is just cruel. She has to talk to her cousin._

_“Let me make a few calls.” She says, as if it’s as simple as that. “But you can do it, Emma.”_

_Her need to protect this brittle, cracking, vulnerable girl is overwhelming._

_She goes home that Friday determined and ready to take nothing but yes for an answer. She comes back to school on the Monday, with her cousin’s number on a little piece of paper in her hand, name scrawled in deep blue ink._

_Emma is not in her class that morning._

_And the principal looks at her with tired, weary concern._

_“There was a raid on the house on Saturday.” And she shrugs. “The foster mom got hauled off for drugs.”_

_Rachel’s heart sinks, her fingers closing in around the paper, feeling the name and number crumple against each other._

_“And…” Her throat closes again. “And Emma? What happened to her?”_

_She shuffles a series of papers on her desk, awkward and clearly wishing this conversation over._

_“Got bounced back into the system, I guess.” And when the principal looks back up at her, Rachel can barely make a squeaking noise in the back of her throat. “Look, don’t get attached to these kids. They come and go. You’ll only wear yourself out.”_

***

Regina stands with her right hand up against the window, staring out into the vast ocean of black. 

The glass is cold against her fingertips, her palm, as her eyes watch the small flickering spots of light off in the distance, just where she imagines the borders of her land to be. They’re rebuilding, those futile, infuriating people. 

They run scared, they’ve run scared her entire adult life, and she assumes they would do so now if they saw her. In truth, it has only ever been the people who have wronged her that need fear her. She has no doubt that, in their eyes, she is still the person that cursed them all. 

When she first opened her eyes back in Snow’s castle it had stolen her breath to find them all back there, in that room, with Snow cradling her husband, purple smoke swirling around them as if the past twenty eight years had never happened. 

And Regina had known, in that second, before everyone else woke up, that it might as well have never happened. They would go straight back to hating her. She would be lucky to find herself out of shackles come nightfall. 

Then the smoke had settled and she had seen Emma and Henry, groundless in this world, placed in the same room as their family. She does not remember making that decision, only the split second of fear in seeing them and raising her hand. 

Bringing them here to her castle, away from outside forces. Everything else since has been catch up. 

They plot and mount their horses, send Snow in to confront her with swords. Not surprisingly, they act as if not one of them remembers the last twenty eight years, that she was a firm, but generous mayor. The town and they prospered under her, they wanted for nothing. 

And now – Regina turns from the window, from the vast, empty expanse of her life, and looks towards the warm glow coming through the door to her chamber – now they want to take everything that’s left. 

They celebrate Snow, who took by force an entire realm, hold her up high and shower her with love, heedless of the ruthlessness and utter brutality in the action. They mourn a princess who lost everything to save them, sparing not a thought to the fact it was a choice willingly made. 

As if Regina wanted this, as if she wanted any of it, to stand alone with no son, no family, no Daniel, nobody to speak of. No little girl she knows ever plays arranged marriages with her dolls or puts them by themselves in a room while all the other toys live their lives. 

The firelight flickers in her chamber, warm and inviting, a soft and beautiful light that somehow seems different to the one outside, contrasted heavily to the specks of heat and threat that dot the distance. 

And so she gives in. 

On the bed, Emma is curled up in a small, compact little ball on the very edge of the mattress, limbs pulled in tightly, the only sign of peaceful slumber is the creaseless expression on her face, the closed eyelids. She looks as if she would be more comfortable on the floor, huddled back into her little pile of furs. When she had left, perhaps an hour before, Emma had been stretched out fully in the middle of the bed. Lying on her stomach with her hair fanned out in a flame around her shoulders. 

She is beautiful either way, but Regina frowns. 

Reaching out a hand, she touches the pale shoulder, wishes almost that the skin were bronzed with sun. She imagines Emma would tan easily, she seems the type. Her fingers ride the curve of bone, up and over, sliding along warm skin. 

She sits down, edging her hip as close as she can to the face there, sitting next to her little pet, a perfect position to pat and feel and touch and take. 

In her sleep, Emma’s eyebrows furrow, and Regina traces her fingers to Emma’s spine and follows it down, bone by bone, curving around the shape the woman has curled into. When she feels no other movement but the rise and fall of breathing, she continues her exploration, fingernails following the patterns of faded scars, the lashes Regina had put there herself. 

Warm breath streams out of Emma’s nose hitting the side of Regina’s hip like little scalds. 

She is unsure of herself now, more than ever, flung high and low over the last day with emotions she can barely control. And through it all, there is Emma. Summoning a tray with food, hot soup and bread and cold water, is as easy as flicking her wrist. In truth, she needs no servants. 

“Emma.” It’s a soft call, as she threads her fingers through the long blonde hair near the scalp, a whisper of gentleness she knows won’t be heard, and then she grips tighter, pulls the hair more firmly and sharpens her voice. “Emma. Wake up.”

And so she does, taking a moment to blink, and then rising quickly and efficiently onto her knees on the mattress. 

“You need to eat.” Regina tells her, without question, without pausing for an answer. “I’m assuming you skipped all your meals yesterday to come and yell at me.”

With that she stands up and walks from the bed, not looking back, comfortable in the knowledge she will be obeyed. 

“Is that how you look after all of my things? By neglecting them?” She asks the fireplace, watching the flames lick at the air, crackling the pine scented logs. “I expect you to treat yourself with more care, do you hear me?”

There’s a muffled sound, an indelicate little _humph_ of a swallow behind her, and she smiles to herself that at least some things never change. 

“Yes, My Queen.”

She turns then and watches as, looking down and unaware of being watched, Emma dunks a piece of bread into the bowl and eagerly lifts it to her mouth. Careless of her nudity, comfortable in it, stripping it from any vulnerability it would usually signify, Emma is a sight to behold. 

And when she looks up, finally meeting Regina’s eyes, her jaw stops moving. 

Tension builds thickly and she feels all the questions between them start stacking up, one after the other. 

“What do you think about fire?” She asks instead, cutting the mood by bringing a small fireball into the palm of her hand. “I tried water and they haven’t gone anywhere.”

Confusion swarms Emma’s eyes as Regina plays with the fire in her hand, turning it over. She waits for a few minutes until the confusion turns to suspicion and, inevitably, Emma turns her head to look towards the window. 

“My Queen?”

It’s a soft question, technically a respectful one and certainly not unwarranted, but it is still a question she would never have asked before Regina sent her back to live with Snow and James. Yes, there is definitely a shift here. 

“Just a little shower to get them on their way. Nothing to worry about.” She shrugs. “Regardless, it didn’t work. Maybe fire will do the trick.”

Emma’s hand slowly lowers, then drops the chunk of bread it was holding. 

Her head shakes in a slow parody of denial. 

“No.” Before she stops herself, swallows, and sits up straighter, tries to play obedient. “Please, My Queen, don’t do that.”

Regina smiles, the corners of her mouth sliding up around her teeth, crocodile sweet as she approaches the bed, closing her fingers one by one into a fist to snuff out the flame. 

“Oh? And what would you have me send instead? Love letters delivered by the wings of doves?”

There is that baleful glare that Emma does so well. Her mouth opens, but then she snaps it shut almost immediately. 

“Speak.” Regina orders. “I’m not asking you for my own health.”

“Me.” Emma obeys instantly. “Send me. If I tell them things are okay again, they’ll go.”

Standing right in front of her, Regina threads her fingers back through Emma’s hair, sliding her hand through the thick blonde tresses. When Emma leans slightly to the side, it’s almost a caress, her cheek in Regina’s palm. 

“And let you go? Why should I believe you’ll come back?” Eyes narrow in front of her and a chin sets in challenge. “They’re more likely to spirit you away than let you back in my clutches, dear, surely you know that. What makes you think they wouldn’t grab you and take you back to their castle, forcing me to actually send the flames?”

“I’ll tell them.” Emma encourages with an eager nod and even more eager eyes. “I’ll tell them it’s solved.”

Regina laughs, not cruelly, but not nicely, a low, amused little chuckle as she brushes her thumb across Emma’s bottom lip. 

“And what exactly is solved? What do you think happened here today?”

A cloud descends on Emma’s face, in her eyes, and she pulls back and Regina’s fingers are left to curl closed in empty air. 

“But… you said… you weren’t going to hurt me unnecessarily anymore.”

She could point out the fallacy of this argument, that Regina said no such thing, it was all Emma in the heat of the moment, but that’s beside the point, really. She has found little taste for the bloodshed anyway, striking out in the most inconvenient ways, and a taste for Emma’s blood even less. Storybrooke really has seemed to tame her. 

“I don’t do nice.” She warns instead. “I’m not suddenly going to change, Emma. This is who I am.”

“I didn’t ask for nice.” Emma doesn’t back down, kneeling up and planting her fists between her knees on the bed, a perfect little doll. “I didn’t ask you to change. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m kneeling, I’m wearing your collar.”

When Regina doesn’t respond, Emma sinks, her body melting into one smooth motion as she flows bonelessly to the floor, coming to her knees at Regina’s feet. 

“Use me.” She pleads, a painful, plaintive offer, eyes looking up. “Just don’t abuse me.”

Then Emma looks down and Regina loses her eyes, those large, green, watery eyes. She can’t take it, just then, Emma’s head bowing down, more broken in that minute than any other time that night. 

“Get up.” But it’s less of a demand than her hands reaching down and grabbing Emma under the arms, physically dragging her up. “Just… get up.”

Then her mouth is on Emma’s again, unable to stop itself, drawn there without her permission, as her hand sweeps behind her back, clearing away any dishes left on the bed, before falling forward and pushing Emma down. 

They bounce together and Regina is on top, always on top, as she grabs for Emma’s wrists. 

But Emma is already there, hands lying limply by her face as she cranes her chin upwards and sucks Regina down again. And all she can do is settle herself back on Emma’s legs, straddle her hips. 

“Would you go?” She can’t help herself asking, even as she rubs herself up and down Emma’s naked body like a cat. “If you were free, would you leave?”

Emma gasps her reply. 

“I can’t.” 

And Regina grits her teeth in frustration. 

“If you could. If you didn’t have the collar, if you weren’t bound. Would you go?”

To her credit, Emma stops and looks away, truly thinking about her answer. Regina rides the rise and fall of her breathing, a rasping, panting thing as she watches the flushed skin of Emma’s face, her wide lust blown eyes, the lips that part and tremble. 

For a second, barely even that, Emma closes her eyes, then turns back to look at her. 

“No.”

Lowering her belly down and burying her face in Emma’s neck, Regina grabs her hips and spins them, rolls underneath Emma and blinks away her own clothes so that her back is on the soft, fluffy coverlet. Emma adjusts easily, switching her legs to the outside so that she is the one straddling Regina and her hands come down to curl around Regina’s hips. 

Emma’s body is water, fluid, ever changing shape to suit Regina’s needs, and she watches as breasts bounce and settle with the movement. 

Sliding the fingers of her right hand up Emma’s thigh, she crosses the hip and flattens her palm across the abdomen there, dipping her nail into the winking belly button to feel the shuddery breaths in and out. It’s a steady pace upwards, between the breasts, over the manubrium, sliding her fingers and thumb up and out eventually on either side of Emma’s throat. 

Regina’s arm is straight, her shoulder stretched up out of position, and she hooks her fingers into the collar and tugs. 

Again nothing.

Grabbing Emma’s chin with her left hand, Regina holds her face still and looks straight in her eyes. 

“Let it go.” It’s an order, a demand, spoken as gently as she’s ever done before to the confusion that swarms. “Don’t think about it, Emma, just let it go.”

And then the gold cracks, falling open in two arched halves joined on one side, and Regina lets Emma’s chin go to catch it. Her fingers close over it, feel the warmed metal, and she holds it for just a few more seconds before looking back up at the stunned expression on Emma’s face. 

“I guess I won’t need fire after all.” The collar disappears in a small puff of smoke. “That should certainly get the message across.”

Emma’s pulse quickens in the webbing of Regina’s fingers around her throat. 

Tightening the grip of her right hand, Regina holds Emma still and immobile as her left hand falls down and slide between the woman’s legs. Gasping above her, Emma’s body opens without hesitation, chest out and legs wide, hands gripping even tighter around Regina’s hips, sliding up into the curves of her waist. 

“I will get you another. Without magic.” It’s half threat, half promise, which encapsulates them both. “And you will wear it.”

Emma purrs her approval, a slow rumble in the back of her throat. 

“Yes.” It’s an urgent, sibilant hiss. “Yes, My Queen.”

She wants to let go in that second, fall back, just let everything drop and ask Emma how she can be so calm in this moment, this entire conversation, when it really feels as if Regina will fly apart at any second, if just one more thing goes wrong. 

Regina, who has never been good enough, does not beg, she does not bow down and she does not crawl on the floor for anyone. She has fought and scrambled and climbed to the top, scratching her way. 

She squeezes again, a harsh reminder of their positions, and Emma’s face pinches, turns red as she struggles to physically stop herself fight back. And as she pushes her thumb into the divot between the join of Emma’s collar bone, she pushes her left hand forward, sliding easily through wet slick folds. 

It’s a small manoeuvre, slightly awkward, but she manages to pull her right leg from between Emma’s and close it in from the outside, capturing a thigh between hers. Tilting her hips up is almost instinct, no need for conscious thought, as is the way Emma slides her own down and then.

They connect, naked and hot and wet and scalding, three of Regina’s fingers burying themselves as far deep in Emma as they’ll go, almost to the base, the back of her palm sliding and rasping against herself, nudging at her own clit. 

Emma closes her eyes as her mouth opens and Regina stares as both their bodies rock. 

She is helpless to stop this, stop the hand around Emma’s throat letting go to slide around her neck, grasp the back of her head and pull her down, claim Emma’s mouth with her own, ravenous and hungry and demanding. And Emma gives all. 

The shift pushes her fingers deeper, pushes herself harder against her hand, slides her body in great pulsing heaves against Emma’s, breasts to breasts, legs against each other. And she cannot stop this wet slick grasping, this desperate need to claw more out of Emma than she has already given. 

And Emma is moaning, that helpless, low pitched rumble moaning that slides right into Regina’s ear and curls around her audio sensors, taking root in her brain and making her hold that little bit tighter. She pulls Emma’s body in close, her face pushed into Regina’s neck.

“Come hard for me, Emma.” It’s a demand, harsh and loud and obscene as she tilts up even more, pulls her fingers all the way out, dragging them up sodden flesh until she’s pulling up on a tight, swollen clit, until all the heat is pulsing between them, touching. “I want you to come inside me.”

It’s the whimper that does her in, that soft little helpless sound before Emma shudders and clamps her teeth around Regina’s shoulder. Softly, so softly, that only the vaguest threat of teeth is felt as Regina throws her head back and cries out. 

She feels it, a hot, hard spurt inside and around her.

“Emma.” It’s hissed, bitten out as the heat spirals in her body to a new height of need. “Emma, now.”

Immediately, without further instruction, Emma slides down out of view and Regina’s hands fall to the side, flopping inelegantly on the bed beside her. She looks up to the high, clinically grey walls of her ceiling as she feels her thighs being dragged up and outwards. 

It’s a stretch of muscle, a pleasant burn as hands push her legs out and all Regina can do is hum, a primitive sound rumbling from the middle of her chest as Emma’s tongue licks down and then up, face buried deep between her thighs. 

She needs this, her body needs it, and her fingernails scratch uselessly at the cover as her clit feels the edge of teeth and the soothing of wet tongue. 

_More_ , it’s at the tip of her tongue and she wants to say it, _more, more more, everything_. That’s what she needs, what she wants, what she’s always wanted, and her eyes fall from the empty ceiling down the landscape of her body, the undulating expanse of skin and muscle to see the blonde hair in the middle. 

“Emma?” She sums it up and it needs no more explanation, not now. “Tell me.”

A tongue thrusts in and out, three times, delving further each time, curling with a lick on each outstroke, before the head rises just far enough for Regina to see Emma’s eyes. 

“Yours.” Comes the affirmative. “Always yours.”

And Regina comes as Emma thrusts back in, still meeting her eyes. 

Untwisting her fingers from the cover, Regina lays her hand on the back of Emma’s head, not holding, just a weight, something tangible to touch and hold onto as she rides the waves. 

Emma finishes with a small kiss to the inside of her thigh and Regina blinks, knowing she would never have dared weeks ago. They both slump into the mattress, Regina on her back and Emma rolling onto hers next to Regina’s legs. 

It’s too close, too intimate, and she should not be entertaining thoughts of pulling Emma up to lie beside her, especially not when she saw with her own eyes what had happened before, Emma’s own discomfort, the way she had moved in her sleep. She nudges the woman with the toes of her right foot. 

“To the floor, My Pet.” Calm and authoritative, her voice holds little warmth. “Your furs are waiting.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many thanks go to my fic beta/guide/advisor: missbreese. To my newly acquired fic advisor: **natasi**. 
> 
> And so many, many thanks go to the talented and lovely people on tumblr (and if you haven't seen these, please check them out),   
> EDIT: It has been called to my attention that the links below don't work... hopefully you can all get what you want if you go to [the PIB tag on my tumblr](http://wily-one24.tumblr.com/search/paint+it+black+fic), just scroll through the text posts and all the nifty picsets and vid previews and things are all there!!!
> 
> namely:  
>  **bellesways** for the beautiful picset inspired by this fic, found [here](http://belleways.tumblr.com/post/30755623474/paint-it-black-quotespam-edits-all-text). 
> 
> Let's not forget **lovelylittlethings12** for the gorgeous picsets also inspired by this fic. : [here](http://lovelylittlethings12.tumblr.com/post/30855404065/so-you-never-let-anyone-get-close-ever) and especially [here](http://lovelylittlethings12.tumblr.com/post/30972133056/doors-slam-lights-black-youre-gone-come-back). Don't miss the flashbacks of [Emma](http://lovelylittlethings12.tumblr.com/post/31012254519/i-just-thought-a-sigh-heavy-and-deep-it) and [Regina](http://lovelylittlethings12.tumblr.com/post/31085710637/the-sound-coming-out-of-reginas-throat-is-not). 
> 
> Thank you, my lovelies, I can't tell you how much they mean to me.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody wants their Princess in bed with the Queen of all Evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Extreme dub-con, D/s, triggery types may want to avoid. Unfortunately, I am going to have to upgrade my warning system here to **noncon** , but this is in a flashback, not the current timeline. You can avoid these, if you need to, by not reading the first set of italics flashbacks. Otherwise, business as usual.  
>  **Spoilers** : Everything aired, the entire first season.  
>  **Disclaimer** : They're not mine, this is why.  
>  **Summary** : There are demons to be banished.

***  
They are still about half an hour from the castle when Jiminy finds them. 

Snow sighs as she watches him settle on the head piece of Matilde’s bridle, not particularly eager for this conversation. 

Or the one to follow. 

“It did not go well?”

That’s a loaded question if ever there was one. Nobody died. Apart from her bruised hip and a few minor scratches and abrasions earned in the storm, nobody was injured. In that sense things went spectacularly above expectation. Emma is free from the collar, from the band of the indebted, and that’s precisely what they set out to do. There has been, as far as they can tell, no further threat to themselves or their kingdom. 

By all of these accounts they have been successful. 

Snow has listened to various sounds of revelry the entire ride home, voices raised in song and congratulations, stories already being woven with exaggeration, gathering mythology with every hoof beat towards home. Those riding closest to her, however, have been as silent and wordless as she, James and Red, Granny and Grumpy. 

“Emma is not with you?” He continues when there is no response save their continuing dejected silence. “Regina won?”

His puzzlement is understandable and expected. 

“No.” She says finally. “She is free from that… that deal.”

But she is not here and the next question does not need to be asked. 

“You were right.” Snow lacks the surge of triumph the rest of her people seem to feel. “I pushed too hard and she chose. She actually chose to defend her.”

The details of who ‘she’ and ‘her’ are remain unsaid and Jiminy rustles his hind legs in sympathy. 

“Isolate Henry.” She says after a moment of silence has let the news sink in. “I want him to hear the news from me, not… not rambling gossip and legend. He deserves to know the truth.”

He gives a quiet nod and flies off. 

“What are we going to tell him?”

She asks the open air, lifting her chin to the sky to look at the white clouds, asks the open space beside her. She doesn’t even need to turn her head to see him. She can feel him well enough, the warm energy, the welcome figure beside her. Her husband. 

“What can we tell him?” Is his answer, as ever calm and reasonable. “But the truth?”

And this is what she is dreading. 

He has had a hard enough time dealing with the fact that his adopted mother has bartered with the life of his birth mother, coming straight off dealing with good versus evil and the confirmation of his beliefs. To learn now that the image of infallible goodness he holds Emma up to has fallen so far as to actively choose to stay with his vision of evil when given the choice will be nearly incomprehensible to his near eleven year old brain. 

It is too close to incomprehensible to Snow’s brain. 

Still, this must come from Snow, from James, even if they themselves do not fully understand what has happened. 

They had just managed to calm everyone, create some semblance of order and outline a strategy to prevent the chaotic panic that had overwhelmed them at the first sign of magical activity, when the open collar had landed at Snow’s feet. A rising cacophony of voices had risen in celebration. 

But not Snow’s. She’d waited for Emma to follow, knowing deep down that the deposit of the collar at her feet cemented the fact that she wouldn’t. In some ways, riding across the bridge over the water to her castle, Snow is still waiting. 

“Snow!” Ella comes running the second they pass through the castle keep walls, baby Alex on her hips. “Snow! Emma is here!”

All the fatigue drops instantly and the aching in her hip disappears as Snow bends forward, dragging her leg up and over Matilde’s haunches, sliding to the ground midstride, almost neglecting to pull the horse to a stop. James will tend her, she knows, or at the very least see to it that all the horses are taken care of before following. 

She is breathless, coming to the main hall at a run. Ella wouldn’t dare lie, not over this, it would be too cruel, and still she is surprised to Emma standing there, standing upright. She is tall and slender and beautiful as Snow takes her in, a boy wrapped around her waist and her arm wrapped around him.

It would be overwhelming, this urge to just run forward and envelop Emma in her arms, but Snow’s feet are cemented to the floor and all she can do instead is look. Just look. Her eyes searching Emma’s face for the smallest piece of hope. 

One little hint that she is here to stay. 

She watches the hand Emma has wrapped around Henry and resting in the middle of his back twitch. The smallest little shake. 

“Henry?” Snow finally finds her voice, cracked and shaky, as she sends a glare to the small hovering insect nearby. “Why don’t you go with Jiminy and Emma will come get you soon?”

The small head pops up and sends a look her way, for the first time Snow sees it, the moody teen waiting and hidden under the boy, a jealous flare of spite before it dies quickly. There is nothing not awful about this situation and she cannot blame him for his reaction. But even as he nods, acceptance in his eyes, Emma kneels down further, mouth opening against his ear and the hand at his back pushing him along. 

A small surge of injustice rises in her, unjust and unwanted. She has been the one, Snow with Charming, who has been here the last few months, who has guided Henry, dealt with the darkest of his confusion and the despair. Her grandson, the word pulses through her veins and scratches at the nerve endings underneath her skin the way it always does. But that matters little, Emma is his mother, of course she is, and the little gesture of support is something any mother would do. 

When his footsteps die away, they look at each other from three feet away and Snow feels weirdly distant, as if these were two figures on a stage and not her and her daughter. 

There are too many words and too many questions, a veritable tidal wave between them. 

“What…?” The words come, because some have to, heavy and thick in her mouth. “What happens now?”

And what she wants to ask is if Emma is finally free now, if she has won, if she can finally learn to live in this land, if she finally belongs to them. But even that question is unwelcome, because they have never known Emma as anything but a grown woman who belongs to nobody but herself. 

“I’m going back tomorrow, I’m not here to stay.” Emma sounds reluctant to say the words, about as reluctant as Snow is to hear them. “Only for a little bit, to…”

To call off the hounds, Snow thinks, to stop them breaking down the doors time after time. 

“Emma.”

It’s a plea, one little word that means so many things to Snow all at once. An apology for everything, a demand, an order to tell her that this isn’t real, notice that she isn’t happy and will never be happy with this, a warning that she will not let this stand, that she will rage and battle forever more in order to restore what has been lost. 

That’s when she sees the break, the cracking in her daughter’s eyes and face, the falling of her expression. It’s a physical thing, this downward projection of Emma’s entire being just dropping down inches in front of her. 

“Snow, please…”

There are no more words, but she hears them, that floating _don’t make this harder for me, I cannot take this right now_ that hangs between them. Emma’s eyes are begging her, craven in their need, and that’s when Snow sees something she hasn’t seen yet. 

A little girl who desperately needs her mother. 

When she steps forward and opens her arms, Emma rushes into them and for a moment that is enough. Snow holds as tight as she is allowed, clinging to this woman larger than her, this grown being who somehow sprang from her less than a year ago. 

“I know…” Emma’s voice shakes just enough into her shoulder that Snow can hear the effort needed to keep her composure. “I know it’s not ideal, that you don’t like it, but… but…”

Leaning back, she lifts a hand and smooths hair back over Emma’s forehead. 

“But this is the way it has to be.” She says, not believing a word of it but willing to try for her daughter. “For you.”

It has been said time and again that Snow is willing to fight at Emma’s say so, she does not need to say it now, it is still in the air. But it is also not needed. 

Going through her brain are accusations of trickery, magic, mind bending, some form of emotional bribery and no matter the truth of the matter, any suggestion of them will be unwelcome. She is not convinced that there hasn’t been some form of manipulation here, that Emma’s choice was a free one. She doubts she will ever be sure. 

But knowing how easy it will be to lose her now makes Snow bite her tongue. 

“So.” She begins again, when even one more stroke of her hand through Emma’s hair would be too much and she must let go. “What happens now?”

And Emma swallows. 

“The same as before.” A quick nod, jerky, pleading for acceptance instead of demands for more answers. “I get a week here every month. Three with Regina. She promised no more blood, she won’t hurt me like that again.”

This is not a comfort, Regina has always done more damage on the psychological level, but she doesn’t say it out loud, not now. 

“Surely you get to choose.” She offers instead. “If this is an agreement now, surely you get to choose how long?”

And there, there it is, Emma drawing back. 

“I agreed to stay.” Arms wrap around Emma’s waist, fragile and protective. “She still… she’s still… I still have to do what she says.”

She should stop herself, she knows it, is already kicking herself internally. 

“What about Henry?” Her brain is desperately screaming at her to stop, stop now, but her mouth just won’t listen. “He needs his mother, Emma, he needs you.”

A flash passes over Emma’s features, pain and regret and confusion. 

“He already has a mother.” It’s stubbornness this time. “You think I don’t know how much it’s hurting him? You think I haven’t lost sleep? Wouldn’t it be better if he could see her? What if…?”

And Snow’s heart stops, pauses, jumps a beat of pure painful understanding. 

“Emma, no, baby.” She could curse herself for the endearment, too close to a condescending put down, enough to raise Emma’s hackles. “You can’t change her, you can’t…”

That way only lies pain and Emma breaking more than she already has. 

“She’s not…” Eyes closed, fists clenched and drawn in tight to her elbows, Emma is the very picture of internal struggle. “… she’s not who she used to be.”

“She is too far gone for redemption, Emma.” This is something she has to make her daughter see, something to save a shred of sanity in there, but she says it gently. “There is nobody left who trusts her. Nobody who would welcome her, even if we wanted it.”

And Emma laughs. 

Not a happy laugh, it’s a bitter, broken sad little sound that pierces Snow in the chest. 

“And you think what? That she wants to join you? Play chess and eat crumpets over tea?”

“Then what? What is happening here?”

Emma’s hands fling wide of her body, arms spread out, the very picture of supplicant. 

“Leave her alone. That’s all she wants.” It sounds rehearsed and Snow cannot tell if it’s because Regina has drilled it into Emma, or if Emma has been practicing it in her head. “Stop sending troops to her castle. Stop waiting for her to be the bad evil. Don’t… don’t attack her. Just… let her be. Let her leave her castle without fear.”

Injustice swarms up without permission. 

“Nobody is stopping her!”

But Emma’s face says otherwise and Snow has to think, really think what her daughter is trying to say. Since they have gotten back there has been an ever present vigil of forest animals outside the boundaries of Regina’s castle, word travelling quickly. 

If she is honest with herself, she knows what would have happened had the word come that Regina was in transit, vulnerable like never before. 

“Okay.” She offers, eager to break the standoff that is beginning to occur. “We’ll leave her alone, provided she does nothing to provoke us.”

“I don’t think she wants to hurt anyone.” Emma is too far into insisting that she has forgotten about herself, about the scars that still mar her body. “She doesn’t even want to be here. I think, I think she was happier as the mayor.”

At Snow’s disbelieving look, Emma rushes on. 

“Maybe she just needs time to remember that, who she was then.”

She is guilty when she speaks, Snow realises with an almost physical blow to the abdomen, like a child expecting punishment for voicing her opinion. A backlash. And she’s just standing there waiting for it, ready to endure whatever Snow will unleash. 

“I will try.” It’s all she can offer. “Okay, Emma? I will try.”

A flinch, barely noticeable, she might not have seen it if she wasn’t looking for it. Emma expecting to be reprimanded, ridiculed… _debased_ for her requests. 

_Not on my watch._

“So.” Snow says with a small shrug. “Will you be here for Henry’s party?”

As if she’s not so close to locking Emma up in a tower like some fabled princess in a story, protecting her from herself, that her limbs are practically trembling with the effort to hold herself back. 

“I… I…” Emma blinks in relief. “I think so.”

Footsteps herald James’ arrival, seconds before they hear his panting overworked breath. 

“Emma.”

His voice comes from behind her and Snow closes her eyes, she wishes she didn’t know him so well, that she couldn’t hear the devastation in his voice as well as she does. It’s patently obvious not only to her, but to their daughter. 

Slam, Emma’s bricks come back up, one by one. 

“Hey.” It’s a stammer, a bitten off aborted little conversation that goes nowhere. “I… uh… I’m going to go find Henry.”

She slinks out past both of them, Snow turning silently in the wake, just in time to see the heartache on James’ face. 

“Just give her time.” It’s easy and natural to slide her hand into the side of his waist, pull him forward so that their bodies align. “That’s all.”

This is home for her, Charming wrapping his arms around her, hands at the small of her back, pressing her against him so that she can feel his chest, his arms, his everything. Her forehead nestles in just under his chin. 

This is her happy ending and it’s cut through with heartache now, knowing her daughter will never get it. 

“Is that what you want?”

He has a knack of asking the wrong questions at the wrong time and Snow bites her lip. 

“No.” It’s a quick shake of her head against his neck. “Not at all.”

***

There are doors in the castle that have been locked for decades. 

Regina doesn’t even bother adding layers of protection, no shoes no shawl no overblown mask of false confidence. Her hair trails over her shoulders and down her back, forgotten and unkempt. As a child she was trained out of the comforting urge to twist her fingers in it. 

Fiddling is a dirty, disgusting habit: says one of the cold, cruel voices in the back of her head. 

Long past the entry to her chambers, past the door of what is now Emma’s, far down to the end, large doors stand mocking her. 

They have seen her at her worst and any pretence at bothering to appear calm and collected is wasted here. 

The metal screeches as she imagines the locks opening, hands clasped tightly to her abdomen. She cannot tell for sure if they are rusted closed or if the resistance is more in her mind, her own reluctance to pass into these unhallowed walls manifesting physically. 

But she has to do this and do it now. There are demons to be banished. 

Hinges creak that have not creaked in well over the fabled twenty eight years. 

She’d woken from a dream, twisting and turning, sweat soaked and whimpering to find Emma’s concerned face looking at her. Emma, her pet, her own docile tame little lap dog, looking as if _Regina_ were the weak one in need of help. 

It had been easy enough to shake it off, wave over the moment, and then whisk Emma away with the mission to soothe the angry hoard. Of course there was no argument, as if Emma would defy an order to go spend time over with her _family_. 

Spite wells up in the clenching of her jaws and Regina stops to close her eyes, take a breath, and step forward. 

Dankness, dark and musty, invades her nostrils, already set to choking her. She grits her teeth, straightens her spine and tells herself she is ready for this. 

But she is not prepared when she opens her eyes. 

It hasn’t changed, of course it hasn’t, nobody has set foot in here since it happened, not to clean or clear or anything. The blankets on the bed are rumpled, pushed half off, as if the occupant has just left. A goblet lies on its side next to a dark purplish stain on a sideboard, blanketed in cobwebs. It steals her breath, robs her of oxygen and makes her dizzy. 

Reaching out with her left hand, Regina comes into contact with the doorframe and immediately she gasps, eyes flying to the wood. 

_A slender hand slaps harshly onto the frame, grasping at the door, fingernails scratching at any surface they can find._

_“Come back here!”_

_It’s loud, the gasp, a lungful of hope escaping in a little cry as large, meaty hands grab her arm and pull her back._

She stumbles backward, as if getting away from the object will get her away from memory as well. It sends her several feet further into the room and her gaze falls on a cupboard door half open, swathes of faded hues that were once deep blues and purples and reds. 

He had always liked the regal colors. 

Magic sails unbidden out of her fingertips and the wardrobe slams shut, sending up a cloudburst of dust and stale, suffocating air. 

_Wife, the ale drenched voice practically snarls it in her ear._

_She has spent less than ten minutes alone with this man previously. Now they are married, together, alone in his chamber, the entire realm expecting them to consummate the marriage this very night. She knows very little, if anything, about men. But she doesn’t need expert knowledge to know that the king, this man, her husband, certainly expects them to finalise this deal._

_Her entire body is trembling._

_“Are you just going to stand there?”_

_She closes her eyes. The corset of her dress cuts into her ribcage, the very material abhorrent to her as it brushes against the underskirts and against her legs, clings desperately to her arms, binding and cruel. And yet, this is her wedding gown, this is the dress that made her Queen in front of hundreds of her husband’s subjects. It has a beauty to it._

_And when it is torn from her, all she can think is about the hours it took the maids to lace her up properly._

_“I… I… I’ve never…”_

_“You’ll learn.”_

Her feet turn in a wide circle, letting her examine each area of the room, spots appearing in her vision that remind her to actually breathe, no matter how distasteful the stale air invading her lungs actually is. Oxygen in, her brain reminds her, a simple familiar litany of facts, carbon dioxide out. 

A large ornate bowl sits bone dry atop a stand, a small matching china jug next to it. Small items litter the table, a brush, a shaving dish, a dulled blade and a leather strop. 

_She stumbles against the stand, water splashing up with the movement and dotting her forearms as she catches herself. Trying not to feel the sprouting purple bruises in the shapes of fingers blooming on her upper arms._

_“Please!” The fear has long since evaporated into simple resignation. “I can’t help it!”_

_But he is too angry to care, turning to her with red faced drunken rage._

_“Your time? Your time! Two years, Regina!” Pointing his finger at her in accusation. “I have emptied my seed in you for two years! Where are my sons?”_

_Every month it is the same and she has long since stopped shedding tears at the arrival of the damning stain in her under things. At this point she is grateful for it, no matter how often she had once dreamed of children she cannot have them here. Not like this._

_But she doesn’t tell him that, she’s not that stupid as she buckles down to the ground, turning so she can lean her back against the stand and breathe, shrinking into the corner before he eventually realizes that she is not cowering for him anymore and throws her out of his chamber._

_“You really are as dead and shrivelled inside as your mother, aren’t you?”_

It starts, like an exhalation after holding her breath too long, a stream of purple cloud from her fingers that sweeps across the room, swirling over the floor and up the walls, invading everything as things begin to crash downwards, breaking, rending apart viciously. 

Porcelain smashes on the floor, wood breaks open in large chunks, drapes and tapestries fall in strips off the walls.

Until the entire room lies in ruins at her feet. Almost. Not completely the entire room. The centre of the far wall lays untouched, unexamined even now, and Regina cannot look, cannot bring herself to face it. 

Yet she must, if she is to leave it behind. 

Her head swims as she turns and a split second before she closes her eyes, she looks downwards and sees the tops of her toes, ten blood red ovals that scorch the back of her eyelids and steal her breath. 

_Her feet click on the floor as she turns her back to him, the greatest insult, and heaves her breath as her arms cross in futile anger._

_“You are my wife! The Queen! Am I not the King?” Comes the bitten, ale soaked, angry words. “Dozens… nay… hundreds of women would be eager to take your place!”_

_It’s funny how he only demands her presence in this room when he is drunk enough to forget himself and his regal appearance, stumbling over words and his own two feet. That’s probably why, her brain spurts the thought into her gut viciously, drunk enough to forget himself, drunk enough to forget her._

_“Then let them!” She hisses back. “Let them spread themselves for you and your fumbling fingers, give me a break for once!”_

_If her words have any effect on him at all, beyond further enflaming him, she cannot see it._

_“Like it or not, My Lady, you are the Queen.” He steps forward until she can feel him at her back, large hands turning her by the shoulders and she can really only resist a small amount before she has to give in and face him as he brings his hands up to cup her cheeks. “I am your King and it is your duty to serve me.”_

_It is not a gentle, loving caress. His palms are sweaty and they hold her too tightly, it’s too warm and she cannot move her head, not even to loosen his grip._

_“And if you will not spread yourself, then you will serve another way.”_

_The pressure is too hard, too forceful and she has no other choice but to give in and let him force her down to her knees._

The bed is large when she finally opens her eyes, the blankets big and heavy and moth eaten. 

All the better to act as kindling. 

Fire catches the dust and mould and rotting linen easily, sparking hot and vicious from her hands. This is coiled energy released after being held for too long, the exit like a balm. Flames dance in front of her eyes and Regina clenches her hands into useless, futile little fists at the end of her arms. 

_”No, no, no! Please!” His grip is iron against her wrists, pinning her to the bed. “Not again.”_

_She is lost amongst the suffocating weight of feather down and man, pillowed on all sides by the softness of the mattress, the luxury of a king’s bed._

_“Regina.” He murmurs into her neck. “Fair, cold, beautiful Regina. Give me this.”_

_Never, she thinks as her fingers curl into themselves next to her face, never again without my say so._

_“I give you jewels, do I not?” He lays down his kindnesses like a showcase, expecting plenty of recognition for his generosity as his knees push between hers. “All the clothes you can wear. A castle! A kingdom! And after one month, still you fight me.”_

_Not for him, not for anyone._

_Her feet scrabble under the heavy pelts, kicking as hard as she can, even though she already knows how useless she is against him, like a fly swatting at a horse hide. Already knows how this will end. Fire scalds her lungs, the organs screaming for more oxygen than she can physically take in with his heavy torso lying fully on hers._

_All the better to hold her still._

_“What else can I give you?” He demands, a confused and belligerent husband as he lifts her by the wrists and shoves her back down again, the movement bouncing her head. “What haven’t I given you yet?”_

_Regina turns to the side and finally goes still._

_“The one thing you never will.” It’s an emotionless exhalation as he pushes in dry and she flinches. “My freedom.”_

Her skin is shrinking in the heat she can almost feel the blisters form, eyes watering from the bright orange flickering that assaults her vision, smoke curls into her lungs and she thinks, for just a second, of staying, of letting herself go up with the rest of it. 

But a blink of her eyes sees her back out in the hall, the cool air sliding welcomely over her skin, licking it clean as she raises one hand. 

Behind her the doors close over the scene of fading immolation and then, carefully and completely, the walls close over that entry altogether, seamlessly, as if it were never there. Blocking it from both view and memory. 

What Regina needs now is to take a long, hot bath, forget the entire morning and wait for her pet to return. 

***

The grass is green today. 

Small, purple wild flowers spring up from the edge of the trees, thin and wiry, and Emma twists the stem of one until it snaps and comes off in her fingers. It’s probably not even a true flower, for all she knows of this world it’s a weed, growing unwanted and untamed. A smear of dew chills her fingers, dampness from the very roots of it, a contrast to the surface beginning to lose the harsh bite of winter. 

She picks another.

The corner of her thumbnail makes a small split in the centre of the stem near the flower bud and she threads the stem of the first flower through it. 

“Daisy chains.” She sighs, wistfully. “When I was about eight, I stayed with this family and they had this huge paddock that got covered in daisies in the spring. I made so many of these.”

Coming up beside her, moving effortlessly into her space, Henry looks down unimpressed by the limp foliage in her hand, but more intent on her. He smiles. 

“You haven’t told me any happy memories before.”

There are too many and not enough responses all at the same time and Emma doesn’t care either way, she just gives him a small, wry grin to match his own and settles down into the grass. Happy to be out in the air, looking up at blue sky.

“It wasn’t all bad.” She says eventually, needing to settle something in him, even if it’s the wrong thing. “I mean, it wasn’t a great life, but it wasn’t all bad.”

That’s the truth of it, really, she has several memories she likes to keep, nice foster parents and friends and books and games and clothes and laughter, all merging into one fuzzy great feeling she holds in her chest. A feeling she guards vehemently, pushing it all the way down and brought back up only when needed the most. 

But this sends her thoughts darker, onto a thread she doesn’t want but cannot stop herself and her smile disappears. 

She shakes it off and looks at the boy next to her instead. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same boy who knocked on her door less than twelve months ago. The one who looked up at her with complete belief and trust and just smiled. He is older now, she can see it in his eyes, in the color that has deepened and the angles that have grown out of childhood pudge. 

Yet it is all too easy to picture him as the tiny baby she had barely held so many years ago. 

Emma cannot stop herself reaching out and curling a lock of his hair behind his ear. He’s growing it out and it’s beginning to curl at the edges. They’re pretty far from any salon or hairdresser here. He tenses for a second and she’s grateful that he allows it and suddenly Emma realises why Snow does the same, reaching out to touch the safest parts of her for any contact she can. 

There is something delicate here, as they sit together on the grass, backs to the trees and looking out at the expanse of open air in front of them. A seemingly endless horizon of blue sky, green earth and more blue water. 

And a castle. 

“Do you miss it?” She has asked him this before, another time, another place, mountains from where they are now. “TVs and cars and school and machine made clothes?”

Those are just things, a vague abstract of what she really means, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s fairly sure he already knows. 

“Sometimes.”

Just that small, soft admission from him releases something in her, is enough for her body to let go, the tension leeching away. 

“Nobody else does.” It comes out like a sigh, a wistful escape of air. “I’m twenty eight years old and everybody just wants to erase it, my entire life, like it never happened.”

Henry looks at her with sympathy, an understanding strange in a near-eleven year old, and she wants to tell him he’s just like her. That this isn’t his world, that there is no precedence in his brain for what they’re going through. But it’s a lie. She knows it just looking at him. Henry was made for this world, this life, he belongs here. 

That divide is broadening every day. 

Soon she will be the only one to remember, let alone mourn the old life. 

“Do you think it’s still there?” Maybe it’s unfair, he’s too young, but really he’s the only one to understand. “Do you think… was it even real to begin with, or was it all just part of the curse?”

She has no words for it, all the miniscule details, the centuries of history and technologies, the billions of people, the wars fought, the terrorist acts, the art made, the countries and the politics and again the people, all those people. 

It’s slipping away from her, here in this cartoon fairy tale world that still seems too abstract to be real. 

To his credit, Henry takes time to consider his answer. 

“Yes. It was real.” And then he breathes. “It’s still real. It’s, like, next to us or something. We just can’t touch it.”

“Parallel.” Emma breathes, memory flashing back. “Adjacent. Have you been talking to Jefferson?”

And Henry flashes her a sharp look. 

“Snow usually won’t let me. I don’t think she likes Jefferson.” He leans forward, as if he’s divulging a secret. “He’s the only one she tries to get to leave the castle.”

Snow, Emma thinks, with her open door policy and bleeding heart, letting everyone live at the castle. How she must detest having Jefferson anywhere near. It’s harder not to blame him. Nobody can blame anyone else, really, for the things that happened in those cursed years. 

But Emma knows that Snow remembers being tied up in that house, the fear it instilled in both of them, and that Jefferson was aware of both his realities. 

“I agree.” Is the only thing Emma says. “You leave him alone.”

He looks like he wants to argue, closing his lips in restrained annoyance, but he doesn’t. He’s quiet enough to convince her he’ll do as she asks.

A round of thumping shuffling sounds pound in the distance and she looks up to see several riders on their horses leave the castle. There was talk of sending out a hunting group, she vaguely remembers Charming and Snow excited about it. 

Maybe she could do that, she thinks, on one of her weeks here. Maybe she could really be part of this world. 

“Does…?” Henry’s voice cracks in the quiet, choked back in his mouth before he breathes in to let the rest rush out. “Does she hurt you a lot?”

He’s so nervous she can practically see him trembling. That’s when she sees it, inside the growing teen is still a small child struggling to understand things that make no sense, struggling to be bigger and grown up just for her. 

“No.” The word comes out automatically and she has to bow her head down when he looks up sharply, disbelief evident. “Not anymore. Not much.”

His finger draws flattened circles in the grass. 

“I want to see.” All she can do is raise her eyebrows in question, the statement floors her that completely. “Your back, I want to see it.”

All the moisture drains from her mouth at the thought, the sudden demand and immediately she is set for denial, to say no, no way, that it’s not happening. Her head shakes, because the words don’t come, and panic begins to stir thickly in her blood. She cannot allow this, she cannot allow Henry of all people to see the scarred flesh that crosses her spine. 

The mirrors in Regina’s castle are mostly covered when she’s around and it is ridiculously easy to avoid mirrors here for anything besides the briefest rituals of dressing. 

Emma does not know what they look like. She has touched them once or twice, fingers daring to walk blindly up her spine, feeling out the raised welts of thickened skin. 

“I’m not a kid.” Stubbornness sets across his face. “I know. I heard Snow after she visited you that first time. When she talked to James. I heard her. I know.”

Her fists tighten so hard that her makeshift daisy chain crumbles in her fingers. 

“Henry…”

But words fail her and she is pleading for an understanding that means nothing in the face of a child’s greedy fear. 

“She’s my mom.” The words are meant to be strong and forceful, but they come out shaking. “That’s what you keep telling me. She’s not a monster. So show me.”

This is it, she thinks, this is where everything crumbles and falls apart. But she can deny him nothing, this boy, and so she turns away from him, coming up on her knees, and tries to calm her trembling fingers enough to untie the laces at the small of her back, to loosen the sides of her dress. 

She cannot bear this, staring straight ahead at the tree two feet from her face, a map of striated bark in shades of brown and grey. Waiting for… she doesn’t even know what to expect, Snow’s righteous anger, James’ silent mortification, a child’s stark and thoughtless recrimination. 

Just as she is about to break, oxygen red hot in her lungs, she feels it: the slightest touch, a fingertip at the top of her spine. Trapped air escapes as she breathes out and as her lungs expand on the following inhale he moves in a jagged line down to the left. 

Emma can feel when the pad of his finger hits a raised ridge, a bump of thickened skin, and slides along it, Her teeth dig harshly and painfully into her bottom lip. 

“Oh.” He breathes behind her. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

And Emma blinks, unable to form words. 

“They’re barely even there.” He continues and falls back, she can feel the absence of him as a lack of heat. “I thought… I thought…”

It’s a messy, wet sound of swallowing. 

“I keep thinking it’s like how I found you.” His voice is so small that it takes her brain a second to catch up, to realise what he’s saying. “In the dungeons.”

With a gasp of breath she is slammed back into that memory, crouching grime covered amongst the dogs, battered and beaten and starved, barely able to see him or his horror. 

“No.” It comes rushing out of her, unstoppable as she falls back down to sit on her ankles and turns around so she’s looking at his face when she says it. “Henry, no. Nothing like that.” 

She is so far removed from that time that she has barely thought of it, so focused on surviving the now. It feels like a dream, some long lost nightmare, more distant than even her memories of Storybrooke and what came before. 

“It’s not about that.” This time his disbelief is vocal, an audible sigh equivalent of an eye roll. “Not entirely. Not… I mean, some of it, but it’s more than just hurting or being hurt.”

“Why? Who does that?”

The question seems to come out of nowhere, but sitting here with him it feels as if it’s been coming for a long time. 

As if she has the answer. Emma’s brain thinks back to the wretched, screaming vicious woman in the arguments with Snow, the desperation that bubbles to the surface and hides behind cold eyes. 

“I don’t know, but she is not all bad.” She says honestly, struggling the same way he is. “I knew a lot of kids in the system, saw a lot of them grow up right and a lot of them grow up wrong. Knew a lot of parents, too. Let me tell you, kid, you grew up awesome, she did something right with you. Everything, she did everything right with you.”

He bristles at her words, the obvious denial springing up, but he stays quiet when she shoots him a warning glare. She’s either going to say these words now or not at all. 

“If I know anything, I know this: kids who grow up to be awesome parents either learned by copying what was done to them, or they made it all up by doing the complete opposite.”

The meaning sinks heavy into his eyes and the fidgeting of his hands stop. 

“From what I know, your mom didn’t have a lot of good examples growing up. She had a really tough time of it.”

Henry takes his time to ponder what she’s trying to say. It’s a futile hope that he will give up the conversation here; that he won’t question further. He always asks and pushes and strives to know. 

“But…?” And he chokes on it, the question, before taking a breath and beginning again. “Why hurt at all?”

And Emma has no idea what to say. Only in her darkest times, drunk and defenceless, had she ever allowed herself to entertain the possibility she would ever see the child she had given up. In her brain, it was always when he was older, when she could shout him a beer over a bar and explain exactly how much of a failure she was at the time and what a great favour she actually did him by sending him away, to which he would he nod and agree and thank her for the wisdom of letting him escape her dismal existence. 

It was never, not once, while he was still young. And it certainly never occurred to her to plan to discuss the psychological ins and outs of sexual gratification and pain and the power in what lies beyond. She can barely explain it to herself, let alone to a ten year old trying to figure out his mother’s sanity. 

“Sometimes if all you get is hurt as a kid, then that’s all you know. That’s how you make sense of things.”

There is still a chill in the air, but the sun prickles lightly on the skin of her face, making her squint up into the sky. 

“No.” He says then, says it with all the knowledge of his youth. “You didn’t. You got hurt, too. And you don’t… you don’t…”

No, she has never cursed an entire land before, has never killed people or hurt them on purpose, she is not cruel and she doesn’t delight in other peoples’ pain. But it is not that simple, it is never that simple. 

“We’re not so different, your mother and I.” Before he can argue, she rushes her words. “You think I’m not as destructive as she is?”

He clearly doesn’t. 

“There’s only one way I know how to deal with chaos and that’s to push it all way down, bring it in. I hurt myself a lot, all my choices, all my life my choices have been the wrong ones for me.” This time when she looks at him, there is the beginning of understanding in his eyes. “Regina, your mom, she pushes the chaos out, hurting everyone around her. But it’s the same thing.”

They don’t speak after that, but it’s a necessary silence she thinks, both of them weighed down by their thoughts. She hasn’t thought of it that closely before, hasn’t questioned herself that deeply, and it surprises her that she’s found such a rational explanation. 

“Emma?” She would not have thought it possible, but his voice is even quieter than before, barely even a breath. “I want to see her.”

Instinct makes her tense, the automatic refusal on her lips before she even thinks about it. But she does think, her brain catching up to reality, to the knowledge of Regina beyond the vengeful, evil queen. 

She cannot look at him, honestly expecting him to believe a word she says about anything, if she cannot trust herself and her own words in this. 

“That’s a good idea.” She has to be careful now, so very careful. “But not right away. I’ll ask her. Let’s not spring it on her all at once. I’m not promising anything, mind you, but I’ll ask.”

His face lights up with tremulous, fragile hope. 

“For my birthday?”

In that moment, he is nothing more than a little boy who hasn’t seen his mommy in months, who has never had a birthday without her. 

“We’ll see.”

***

There’s a certain sombreness to the castle that descends come nightfall. 

Red can hear the low rumble that echoes along the walls coming from the main hall, tables set like truncheons where hundreds of people sit, each with their own versions of what had happened. The truth of it has spread and their joviality of yesterday has lost some of its shine. 

But here in the hall it is a different story. 

She giggles as she fixes her left hand over Emma’s eyes, watching the curve of her lips rise up off her teeth. 

“Come on.” Emma pleads. “Where are you guys taking me?”

To her right, Snow tutts good naturedly in what is definitely not her first warning to stop asking and Ella laughs, a tinkling sound of enjoyment. 

“Not telling.” Is Red’s only answer as she lifts her chin and breathes in. “But we’re almost there.”

If nothing else, the scent is tantalising. It curls into her nostrils and sets her teeth on expectant edge. She alone out of the four of them can distinguish it from the multitude of meat and gravy and vegetables steaming in platters in the dining hall. 

This is a girls night, the last few hours until sundown, until their good moods will disappear as quickly as the dark carriage will appear. Emma’s last hours. 

She will be back in a fortnight and then every month after that, the details vary little from the deal that went before. The timing is fortuitous, coinciding well with the plans for Henry’s birthday and Red knows that Snow is stunned at the good will Regina is showing with it. 

Good will nothing, Red thinks, it is merely coincidence. 

Emma’s skin lacks the scent of copper that will grow steadily over the coming week, ferment until it is heavy enough to ping Red’s radar. It is definitely one of the less admirable aspects of the wolf she has come to terms with. 

Several stumbled hallways later and they turn a corner. 

The general clattering noise cannot be mistaken, the heat thrown from the flames of the ovens, the large ladles banging against the even larger pots. The kitchen is the most easily identified area of the castle. But it is not the sounds that catch Emma’s interest as the woman just her chin out, nose rising high in the air. 

“Ohh.” She gives a delighted, pleased moan. “What is that?”

And Red takes her hand away, allowing light to blind Emma for just a second until she adjusts. 

Granny bustles close around a large hole in the wall, off to the side, out of the bustle of the main kitchen, orange flames licking deep inside over the blackened shelf. 

“For you.” Red bounces on her feet, excited like a child. “Granny and I have been growing the herbs and we started salting and drying the meat the first month we were here. Granny is _very_ particular about her salted meats.”

Like it matters, like any of the details matter as not only Emma stands there transfixed with almost frightened anticipation, waiting for Granny to lift the giant flat wooden tool and dip it into the heated cavern. 

She brings out a golden, flat, steaming round of bread, melted cheese, tomato, herbs and this world’s equivalent to pepperoni. 

“Ohhh.” Ella moans, taking an unconscious step forward. “I need this.”

And Red nods eagerly. 

“Get in line.”

“I never really liked pizza.” Snow murmurs, her brow wrinkling between her eyes. “But I think right now that is the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.”

As all four of them stand there, Red can see each one of them mentally calculating the size of the dish versus them plus Granny, the portions shrinking before their eyes. Embarrassed by the show of naked want in all of them, Granny shoos them to the small table set with wine and plates, but Red sees the glint of satisfaction in her eye as she turns to retrieve a second pie out of the oven.

Emma hasn’t said a word, but her pulse rate has quickened and her lips are sucked in tight to her teeth. 

“There.” Granny doesn’t mess around, chopping a large blade through it easily and slapping slices on their plates. “Don’t stand on ceremony ladies.”

They don’t. They certainly don’t. 

“It’s not flat.” Granny apologises, but Red notices she’s not pulling in any of her appetite either. “Not like a real one.”

And Emma groans her disagreement. 

“Oh my god.” Dipping her neck to angle her chin in under the slice she’s holding up, Emma pauses. “Haven’t you ever heard of deep dish? This is awesome. You could make good money with these.”

After a beat, in which she bites off a mouthful and then swallows, Emma continues. 

“Do you guys even have money? What’s the deal here?”

Ella begins a lecture on barter economies and gold and silver and copper and bronze and Red refrains from rolling her eyes. The gold and silver parts never really apply to her, certainly not to ninety percent of the land. It’s probably relevant to Emma, though. 

No, she’s much more used to bargaining how many eggs is worth a bolt of fabric and if Joe the blacksmith will accept baked goods to strengthen the locks on her cabin door before winter sets in. The way most people do. 

Of course, Ruby understands all about the beauty of money based economies. 

Before Storybrooke, she had spent several years in isolation and now that the weather is warming up and people are making treks into the forest back towards their own homes to see the damage done and discover if their small homes are liveable, Red does not know where she will fit in. 

The town accepted Ruby, they liked her, but Red is a different story and she’s not completely sure that the love of a small town waitress will wash away the fear of the wolf. 

Moving back in with Granny would be her first choice, but perhaps she will find it easier to go back to her hidden cottage in the woods, waiting for random visits from Snow. She allows herself another second of self-doubt before an encouraging nod from Snow, one small little expression, reminds her that she has friends and that maybe, just maybe, her position in the castle is more permanent than she remembers. 

Shaking herself free of this train of thought, Red re-joins the group, taking a moment to truly see the women sitting at the table. They are happy on the surface, taking this rare moment to share and laugh and relax, to just enjoy themselves away from any other pressure.

And yet Snow keeps sending small, worried glances towards Emma, who pretends not to see them, a too bright shine to her eye and smile. Granny huffs good-naturedly, interjecting with her usual no-nonsense comments, but she too watches over her little brood with a shrewd and cunning expression. Ella’s hands twitch occasionally, her pulse quickening, and Red can see the fingers taking the shape of a small head she wants to cradle, some point of reassurance in the midst of this maternal desperation. 

A hush falls when the shadows lengthen on the walls. None of them seem to want to break the bubble of their night and, eventually, it is Granny who stands up and begins collecting plates with a loud clatter, the sound bursting in the wake of movement. 

It is time for goodbye, yet again, the ritual concrete as it had been all those months ago, no different to then, but not the same. Emma will stand, soon, and say private words to her parents, to Henry, to each of them in turn. Earlier in the day she made the rounds of the crowd, whoever wanted to come and talk. 

But right now she is stuck in her seat, seemingly unable and unwilling to move with her fingers wrapped around the stem of her goblet. 

“I… I…” Ella is the first to crack, pushing her chair back and standing in one hurried breath. “I should go check on Alex. Lord knows what Thomas has let her get into.”

It is a quick, silent, expressive conversation with their eyes, but Red is surprised to find Snow caving first. 

“I’ll help.” She calls weakly and follows Ella with quick staccato bursts of her boot heels on the floor. “Wait for me.”

And then there were two. 

Red waits for several beats, trying to find something to say, anything, to the tightening of Emma’s fingers, the white knuckles and firm wrist that belie the trembles. 

“You don’t need to go.” She settles on. “If it’s true, if she gave you a choice, you can stay.”

And this is when Emma’s eyes lift. 

“But I do.” It’s a small whisper. “I need to go.”

A wave of sympathy crests over Red, washing her in the warm need to comfort. 

“Are you… okay?”

Emma’s lips tighten, pulling in close to her teeth, and then she breathes out. 

“I’m scared, Red. I shouldn’t be, I try not to be, but…”

The wave turns tidal, flooding over her as she rounds the bench table and sits next to Emma, wrapping her right arm around the woman’s waist, drawing her in for an embrace, Emma’s back to her front. 

“That’s okay.” She murmurs, feeling futile even as she does it, like a little girl playing house with a big sister. Even if Emma is, technically, nearly three decades younger. “It’s okay to be scared of her.”

“No.” With a quick shuffle, Emma pulls forward, not completely away but a small distance between them as she keeps her face angled down. “I’m not scared of Regina.”

There’s a hopelessness there, a confusion that she cannot seem to push past and, as Red cranes to see the struggle in her eyes, she finally finds the thread that ties it all together. 

“You’re scared of you.” It escapes like an awed whisper, that final piece of the puzzle sliding into place. “Of who you are.”

Emma shrinks into herself, drawing in tight, and Red rushes to reach out and slide a comforting hand down her shoulder. There is no sound between them but the dull echoes of people nearby, the thump and crash of a kitchen. 

“I’m a very protective person.” And Red congratulates herself on not snorting at Emma’s admission. “I mean, I don’t trust people very much. At all, really, before I came to Storybrooke. I’m not used to it. But now, with her, I don’t have any limits. And that scares me.”

Far from the downward spiral of inner panic she would expect to feel in such a moment, Red feels a blessedly cool wave of knowledge wash right over her. Her hand doesn’t shake when she reaches over and takes Emma’s hand in her own. 

“You’re not the only one who has a side of themselves they’re afraid to face, Emma.” Said quiet, without accusation or confrontation. “It’s not easy, I know it’s not, but you have to face it.”

She feels Emma’s shudder, a twist that happens in a straight line from her head all the way down her spine. 

“When I first found out about the wolf, I couldn’t take it. I mean, I’d killed people, lots of people, all that blood. And Peter… I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t want to accept it. I locked myself in a cage every night, telling myself that’s all I deserved. I was so scared.”

She’s trembling herself now. 

“But I wasn’t happy, I was making myself sick and miserable. The only way I finally was able to cope was when I stopped thinking the wolf was something outside of me, something awful that took me over. It wasn’t easy, but I began embracing it, learning to live with it, to control it, to use it to my advantage. It was and is part of me.”

Leaning over, resting her chin on Emma’s shoulder, there is a quiet form of camaraderie. 

“Whatever happens with Regina, whatever you do or don’t do, you need to make peace with it yourself.”

Against her, Emma nods. 

She could stay here all night, giving Emma that comfort, that reassurance that she craves so desperately, but Red’s ears prick up to the dreaded sound of carriage wheels in the distance and she shifts herself upright. 

***

_Her legs swing on the edge of the bed, toes not quite reaching the carpeted floor. It’s a soft bed and she loves it. She loves the warm, thick, squishy quilt that wraps around her like a marshmallow and the purple pillow with a flower on it, and the faded yellow sheets that smell like green, green grass in the sun and don’t cling._

_Usually she wouldn’t waste any time before snuggling as far as she can under the covers, burrowing into them. Snug, Miss Nancy tells her with a smile, like a bug in a rug. Miss Nancy says she has never seen a child so in love with naptime and sleep. If she squinches herself to the edge of the bed, small body balancing between safety and falling, she can look up out of the window and see the moon if there are no clouds._

_But tonight Emma covers her ears and swings her feet harder._

_“Jesus Christ, Nancy!”_

_The loud voice echoes through the house and Emma thinks her heart sounds like thunder._

_“Keep your voice down.” Softer, gentler, Emma pictures the soft brown hair and ponytail that goes with this voice, the kind blue eyes. “You’re going to scare her.”_

_“Scare her? Scare her!” He is loud and he is angry and he makes Emma squeeze her legs together hard so that she doesn’t do something awful and babyish like wet her pretty, soft, warm bed. “The police knocked on our door in the middle of the night! She called the cops on me! For being with my wife!”_

_They are in the next room and the walls are not nearly thick enough. That room has a large bed big enough for at least fifty Emma’s to hide in. Nancy has a small box with a mirror in its lid and she let Emma open it one day, let her look at the jewellery inside. More jewellery than Emma ever remembers seeing in her entire life. Nancy has a closet full of pretty dresses and jackets and skirts and she laughed in a nice way at Emma’s all too serious face and promised when she was big enough she could borrow the big red coat, soft and silky. Emma loves that room, it smells like Nancy’s perfume, like flowers and musk lollies and love._

_But Emma won’t go back in that room again._

_“It’s not her fault.” Sweet voiced Nancy pleads. “She thought she was helping, she thought you were hurting me.”_

_There is a silence, a long drawn out silence that makes her take her hands off her ears and listen hard._

_“And what have I ever done?” He asks. “To make her think that?”_

_“Nothing. Nothing.” Soothes Nancy. “Of course nothing. It’s just… her last home…”_

_The next explosion makes her slam her hands back up._

_“Her last home! Every little thing that comes up, I have to hear about her last home.”_

_And this time Emma scrunches her eyes up tight, so tight that little pops of purple and blue burst in the darkness, anything, anything not to remember._

_“That’s not fair. You know what happened. You know what they said. You went to the same meetings I did. She just needs time.”_

_“Time? Time! It’s been three months. If she can’t tell the difference now between what she went through there and what goes on in this house…”_

_They are loud, true, but nowhere near as loud as her memories. She hasn’t seen Nancy with tear swollen eyes and bruised cheeks, there is no shouting or screaming. And there hasn’t been any blood yet._

_There is a quiet murmuring she can’t quite make out, not without taking her hands away again._

_And she doesn’t want to do that._

_“You don’t know what it’s like.” This time he is quieter, calmer, but Emma is still shaking. She knows well the danger that comes with the calm, quiet anger. “Three months, Nancy. I come home every night, to my own house, to a child who cowers in the corner. She acts like I’m some kind of a monster no matter what I do. I can’t live like that.”_

_Nancy told her once about the big giant light up Santa they would put in the yard when Christmas came around. It will help, she’d promised, to show the real Santa where to drop off her presents. But, like Emma told Nancy in quiet stuttered words, like freckle faced Bert at the big home told her when she’d cried last year, Santa doesn’t come to unlovable children like Emma._

_And Nancy had wrapped her arms around Emma and said in a crackled, upset sort of whisper that she knew, she just knew Santa would visit this year._

_“She’ll come around.” Nancy, sweet voiced Nancy, who loves Emma. “Give her time.”_

_“Come around to what?” He challenges her, voice cracking in desperation. “You’re the only one she lets near her, the only one she speaks to, and barely even then. Tell me, has she ever come up to you of her own volition and given you a hug? Or even asked for one? No, she merely stays still for you. She doesn’t love you, Nancy, she_ tolerates _you.”_

_Emma’s heart pumps hard in her chest and if Nancy were in front of her right now she would, she would do that, she would put her arms around the woman just to prove him wrong._

_“Stop it.” Comes the quiet voice. “Now you’re just being cruel. She just needs to learn to trust again.”_

_“That child is incapable of trust.”_

_There is damning silence again, noted only in the timing of her pulse thudding against her ears and across the top of her head. It feels like she will strain everything, both stretching out to hear and scrunching up small to disappear. She wants them to talk, to hear what they say, and she wants it to be quiet and stay quiet and for nobody to ever raise their voice again. Ever. She wants a room with a big tree and red tinsel and a present underneath just for her._

_She wants the light up Santa in the yard so desperately her teeth bite hard into the sides of her cheek._

_“It’s Christmas next month.” When the words do come back, it’s him that speaks. “I can’t bring her to my family like this. She’ll make them think we terrorize her.”_

_There’s a sound, a small soft pattering of footsteps and small, too skinny Emma who sometimes needs to be told things more than once, does not need an explanation to understand that there is a dramatic shift._

_“So you’ll fly without me.” It comes out like a trilling laughter, a casual remark, but Emma has never heard Nancy’s voice stumble and break like this before. “I’ll stay here with her.”_

_But there is no room with a tree, not for Emma, and no Santa. Light up or otherwise._

_Freckle faced Bert speaks the truth._

_“No.” His voice rumbles past her hands, into her eardrums and all the way down her spine. “This isn’t working. She needs help, Nancy, more help than we can give her. Don’t be selfish now. Let people more qualified do their job.”_

_“Please.” And Nancy, sweet voiced Nancy with the soft brown hair and ponytail with the kind blue eyes, Nancy that Emma loves but has never hugged, Nancy who doesn’t care and loves Emma anyway, Nancy is crying. “Please don’t do this.”_

_“It’s her or me, Nancy.”_

_Little as she is, Emma knows she is never picked first._

***

Grey and black spires reach up to the sky and Emma has a moment of fear. 

Panic makes her step back, her right foot lowering down the stair automatically, toe searching for a foothold, but when she turns to face the carriage that bought her here, it has already disappeared. She needs to stop being surprised at the lack of sense this world makes. 

There was no driver this time, none that she could discern anyway, and in the blink it took from the edge of her parents’ land to this the concern has grown for Graham. And that concern pales in comparison to that for what is about to happen in the near and distant future. 

There is nothing left to do but to push forward, enter the castle, find Regina and play this out to completion, however it will go. 

It is a strange and eerie silence that greets her when she pushes the doors open. Regina’s castle is a large one, to be sure, but it has never seemed this big before. Devoid of all life, the walls are too grey and cold. The chill in the air alerts her immediately to the fact that there are no fires lit in these halls or any another on this floor. 

The lack of staff makes the silence almost unbearable. 

Her footsteps are the only sound she can hear and they sound obscene to her, too loud in the wake of her movement. She has the strangest urge to take off the handmade kidskin boots and walk in her stocking feet. Her throat tightens and she’s almost grateful for the excuse not to call out, to use her voice in the oppressive stillness. 

Mounting the stairs seems to take a lifetime and she feels like nothing more than a child wandering where she shouldn’t, as if she will stumble across something dark and dangerous. It’s a feeling she can’t shake, especially in this fairy tale world where witches and dragons and dark magic abound. 

When she reaches the top of the stairs, it is an automatic pull to Regina’s chambers, through that hallway of mirrors and darkness, but the room itself is empty and cold. The entire castle seems deserted. 

Perhaps this is why Regina kept staff, despite being able to conjure most everything with magic, because an entire empty castle is imposing in its loneliness. 

She tries Henry’s chamber next, but that too proves abandoned. The blocked off wall at the end puzzles her for a second, Emma is sure that the hallway was longer, that there were further rooms, but she shakes it off, sure that her mind is playing tricks on her. 

There is only one set of rooms left, at least rooms that she knows, and it is absurd to even suspect that this is where Regina might be. But she knows before she even brings her hand up to the doorknob that this time she is correct. 

Heat comes in waves from the space under the door. A fire is lit in the fireplace, that much is certain, and if she presses her ear to the door and holds her breath she can just hear the slight crackling of flames. 

And nothing else. 

Confusion makes her hand shake as she reaches forward and pushes the door open, already fighting her body which is primed to run. She sees it all in a manner of seconds, eyes picking up details her brain is too slow to process instantly. 

Regina sitting at the dressing table, the bedclothes that are rumpled and unmade, the bathtub at the far end of the room, and trunks sitting open in the middle of the floor. 

Full of her clothes. 

And as Emma slips easily and naturally down to her knees, her brain puts the pieces together. 

It has been months since she has slept in this castle and weeks before that since she has slept in this room, having ended sleeping most of her nights at the foot of Regina’s bed. She knows with complete surety that there is no reason for the sheets and blankets of the bed to be messed. 

Unless someone else has slept here, in this room that is the only warm room in the castle, the only one that has any vestige of life in it. 

She has no time to analyse this, however, as Regina is already standing, turning to face her with a blank expression on her face. It sends a chill down Emma’s spine, more so than the cold and calculatingly cruel looks that usually preface pain. 

“Stand up, Emma.”

There is something not quite right about this Regina, something indefinable, and it takes several unblinking moments of Emma staring upwards before she realizes that her hair is down, that she is wearing a robe. And by the shape of it, not much underneath. 

Emma’s eyes fall reflexively on the tub and her confusion mounts. 

“I said stand.” 

But she doesn’t, something tells her this is the very worst she could do right now, so Emma stays resolutely on her knees, looking up and not breaking eye contact. 

“Emma.” The slightest hint of amusement honeys Regina’s voice, but there is an inflexibility in her eyes as she walks closer, close enough to reach down and place one finger under Emma’s chin. “I said stand.”

The pressure, the sharpness of the long oval fingernail as Regina pulls her upwards is biting at the tender skin of her neck. Emma’s legs shake as she has no choice but to give in, to rise, to come level with her Queen. 

“I have packed the rest of your belongings. I don’t want you here. You’re free to go.”

And with that, Regina turns and walks away, as if it is nothing. 

It surges up in her, hot and boiling and she struggles not to let it loose. 

“No.” But she is unable to hold that one word back, that unforgivable profanity. “No.”

Seven steps away, Regina turns on her heel, eyebrow quirked. 

“And what is that, my dear? The burgeoning of a spine?” With a quick flick of her wrist, Regina snaps the buckles of the trunks closed and slides them across the floor to Emma’s feet. “No matter. I am done with this game. I’m tired of holding people against their will. You’re free, Emma, free and clear. Go quickly now.”

“No.” She has an insane urge to stamp her foot, to growl like a spoiled child. “You’re not forcing anything, I _chose_ to be here. My choice.”

It is harsh and mocking and cruel, that laughter, and she should be used to it by now, but the sound of it makes her throat catch, steals the very breath from her lungs. But it is nothing to the sound of feet walking her way, to the feel of a hand set itself in the crook of her neck, catching her throat in the webbing between thumb and forefinger. 

“That would hold a lot more sway, My Pet, if you can answer one simple question.” Regina is so close that Emma sees her in parts, the flaring of a nostril, the glimmer of teeth sneering out of red lips, black hair. “What would you like to drink, water or wine?”

Emma sets her jaw, unwilling to break eye contact first. Her teeth clench and she closes her lips over them, tries not to let the answer through, because there is only one answer and it is the wrong one, they both know it. 

She can do nothing else. 

“Whatever. Pleases. You.” It’s strangely bitten out and defiant, this submission. “My Queen.”

Triumph flares in Regina’s eyes, but it is not happy. 

“And do you see, Emma?” Regina brings her other hand up to run it across her brow, through her hair, half caress and half threat. “Why I just don’t trust your word on anything? You are so damaged you cannot even answer a simple question.”

They are so close that if Emma pushed forward, just an inch, thrust her chin hard against the hands holding her she would be able to kiss Regina, taste the lips that are sending heated breath over her skin. 

But Regina pushes first, casting Emma from her in a stumble. 

“I told you before that you had no idea what you were asking for. This is the last time I will tell you: leave.”

Anger doesn’t come to Emma in a surge, it creeps over her like warmth on her knees. The feel of sunlight pricking her skin through a car window and the feel of hot, sticky vinyl under her thighs, her feet unable to reach the floor and the disappointed sound of her social worker echoing in her ear, berating her _again_.

It is the sight of trees flying past and road signs too fast to read behind water wet eyes, the feel of soft white wool clenched into her fist. 

“No.” She feels herself moving, but she cannot stop it, cannot pull back from the absolute horror that is herself stalking forward and pushing Regina back with her hands. “I am not leaving!”

Not even the sight of her Queen stumbling backwards, the profanity and sacrilege of it, is enough to stop her. 

“So I am too damaged to be of use, Regina?” The word, the name, sits stark and ugly between them and Regina herself looks as if she has just been slapped. “And I don’t make the decisions you want me to make when you want me to make them?”

She would expect anger, fury, some kind of retaliatory attack. Her muscles are tense enough to wait the coming pain. But it does not come and Emma pushes herself forward again, her feet steady, and they are only inches apart. 

Regina does not back down, but she does not hit out. 

“Newsflash. You did this to me! You made me this way.” There is nowhere to go but closer and the next step slams them together. “You don’t get to tear me down and shape me the way you need and then tell me it’s not what you wanted.”

It’s something that should be yelled out, an argument, and many months and an entire lifetime ago it would have been, but right now she is neither combative nor challenging, only speaking to be heard, to convince. 

“You bled me, you had me on my knees, in pain, you separated me from the family I’ve been searching for my entire life, you made it so I couldn’t do anything without your say so, made me crave the slightest little bit of approval from you. And now I am exactly the way you made me. So you deal with the consequences.”

And she is breathless, suddenly bereft of the energy that bought her here, knees shaking as she waits for the destruction to begin. It is crushing, stealing all the air left in this chamber which has become unbearably hot in the heat of the flames. 

Emma can do nothing but step back, her shoulders dropping. 

“Do you think it was easy?” She asks when there is no reply. “Do you think I _liked_ looking into my mother’s face and telling her that I chose to come here rather than stay with her? That I chose _you_ , out of everyone? After all you’ve done?”

She looks about the room, this desolate, desperate farce at normality in this hopelessly abnormal situation. Looks at the undeniable proof, those little details that suggest Regina has been in here since she left yesterday. 

It hurts, like taking a blade and scraping the insides of her chest into an empty, agonizing chasm, because she keeps telling herself that there is no way it means what she thinks it might mean, but she wants that, wants it more than she would have thought possible. 

Logically, her brain shuts her down, rules that out, but Emma has never been led by logic. 

“I know this is…” The swallow she takes is large and painful and Emma can do nothing but wrap her arms around her body, clutching at her elbows. “I know this means nothing to you, it’s all part of your plan to hurt Snow, maybe have a little fun in the process, but…”

Her fingers grip hard, nails digging into her own skin, a brief flash of pain that runs through her like a jolt of calm. 

“But it means something to me.” 

“Oh, it means something to me, Emma.” Regina finally manages to force out, jaw straining, and Emma can see the struggle. “All of it, since I’ve been here, it means I am exactly what they say I am, exactly what I said I would never be. That’s what it means.”

When Regina turns her head to meet her eyes face on, Emma has the absurd and disturbing urge to whine. A purely sympathetic and needy response to the steely conflict in the eyes watching her, she wants to do something, anything to please her Queen. 

“So you choose to be here? But that’s not how I remember it.” In one sentence, Regina has flipped a switch from reluctant straight back into predator, inhaling and seeming larger for it as she eyes Emma with a fresh new gleam in her eye. “I remember quite a bit more blood and begging, don’t you, Princess? Have you forgotten your little cell already? It’s still there, your friends the hounds will be glad of your company.”

Emma cannot repress the little shiver and all it does it spur the woman further. 

“You had no choice, you’ve never had a choice here, and you can dress it up any way you like, but that fact will not change.” One step, two, Regina reminds her of nothing less than a panther stalking her prey as she circles. “Ever wonder why I chose you, Emma? Why I kept you here and made you my special, obedient, doting little pet?”

She blinks, unable to see the trap she knows is there. 

“Because of Snow…” Her voice falters, shaking on the exhale. “… to hurt her.”

This time she is expecting the chuckle, the mean, pointed laugh that isn’t a laugh at all. 

“Trustworthy as ever, Emma, always downplaying your own value.” And she closes her eyes, trying to stop the reflexive shake of her head as she can feel Regina’s energy pulsate in the air around her, stalking behind her to the other side. “There are many ways I could have hurt Snow, simpler ways. Taken her, taken her dear _true love_ Charming, laid waste to her entire lands. I could just have easily left you to rot in your dungeon, or kill you outright.”

A finger, one pointed, lonely little finger lands on the cusp of her right shoulder and trails down her arm. 

“But not you, Emma.” Breath steams across her ear, the words pointed and aimed to hurt. “You were ripe for the picking, malleable, so desperate to be loved, so brimming with righteousness and goodness you were practically dripping with it.”

“I’m not…” She can’t stop herself and she bites back the words on instinct, but a second later a hand brushes up the underside of her chin urging her on. “I’ve never been good.”

“You’re not _innocent_ , my dear.” The correction comes automatically, pleased and too quickly, as if Emma has said the perfect thing, said her lines just right. “But you are _good_. So nauseatingly, brilliantly good and heroic that it’s practically blinding. So like your parents. And those weeks I had you caged below, I was making plans.”

The swallow gets lodged in her throat and she wants to open her eyes, wants to go back five minutes and push Regina even harder away from her, wants to go back months and throw the turnover in the trash before it caused so much pain. 

“The best way, the very _best_ revenge I could ever get from Snow White, is to take her daughter the saviour, the prophesied White Knight, and squash it out of you.” Regina leans in close again, mouth only a fraction of an inch from her ear, all the better to ensure Emma doesn’t miss a word, that she can practically taste the venom pouring over her. “I wanted to look her in the eye and give her undeniable proof how easy it is to corrupt a truly blameless soul, to prove to her that broken, damaged people start out just as good as she did. That anybody can have the righteousness drained out of them, one crack in the psyche after another.”

It is cruelty at its finest and again Emma is left breathless, scrambling for any sense of internal balance, but Regina takes that too as she gives one sudden, harsh shove and sends Emma sprawling several steps away. 

“But you couldn’t even give me that. Not you! Not Emma the Saviour Swan!” She is angry and pointedly cruel, but Emma can recognise a desperate animal when it is in front of her, clawing its way out. “You took everything! Every lash, every spell, every destructive thing I ever said, you took it and you became this obedient, broken little thing and yet, no matter how hard I tried, you never once lost that spark of righteous goodness, that… that…”

There is no word left in Regina for this and Emma lifts her chin and waits. 

“You have no idea how much I despise you for it.”

But Emma feels the shudder of a lie, stronger than she has felt it in a long time. 

“You’re right, I never had a choice.” She confirms, snapping reality back into Regina’s eyes. “You took everything from me. I should hate you for what you did, what you’ve done, everything that came before. I have more reason than anyone to hate you, even Snow. Now you tell me I’m free, that I can leave and everyone can live without fear of you.”

Crackling in the fire is the only sound in the room for several seconds, the air popping with the scented log. 

“I should hate you, so you need to believe me when I tell you I want to be here. If I’m really free to leave, then I should be free to stay. I don’t hate you, I’ve never hated you, and now I need you.”

It is stark and cold and honest, this statement. It should hurt, honesty this brutal and naked always hurts in the end, but she doesn’t feel scared. 

There is a gust of air, a welcome enveloping of magic around her, and for a brief second Emma can breathe. But in the next moment a cry breaks out of her throat, broken, as she looks down to her decidedly un-naked body. 

It is strange and wrong and confining, this prison of layers, and she cannot understand how it used to be the most comfortable thing she owned. The tight confines of store manufactured boots laced up her calves, the denim that stretches over her legs, plasters itself to her skin all the way up her thighs and even between in the most obscene way, the polyester and cotton that clings to her abdomen and breasts, the sweltering stickiness of pleather encasing her arms and back. 

Emma looks up. 

“Take it off.” She cannot fall right now, she cannot bend back into pleading, or all will be lost. “Just take it off.”

They are teetering on some precipice and something innate is telling Emma to hold strong just a little longer, not to bend right now, not to fall desperate and scrambling at Regina’s feet, not to struggle in her haste to tear the clothes from her body. 

And then another welcome _whoosh_ and the air circles her blessedly naked skin again. 

“I am not her anymore.” 

With those words, four simple unplanned words that she didn’t even take the time to construct in her head as she flung them at Regina, Emma finally accepts it. She is not Emma of the Foster System or Emma of the Juvenile Prison, she is not Bounty Hunter Emma or even Boston or Tallahassee or Phoenix Emma, not even Storybrooke Emma anymore. 

That world, those first twenty eight years, that world is gone and she is not going back and she does not need to grieve that fact anymore. 

And she smiles. 

It’s an emotion outside of Regina and this castle, of Snow and Charming and Henry, something distant and untouchable to anyone else. It is Emma’s. 

“I’m not leaving.” Her voice is deeper now, lacking the urgency of before, smooth in her newfound peace. “This is where I belong.”

It’s not an argument, it’s immutable fact.

No matter what Regina does or how far she sends Emma away. 

Now when she looks, it is not at the room or the bed or the clothes, it is Regina herself and Emma feels the warmth wash through the veins of her body, flush with it. 

This woman, her Queen, she is beautiful and majestic and captivating, even with a stubborn, blotched face of denial, shaking her head with the effort of trying to convince herself and Emma that Emma’s words are wrong. 

Not only would she give everything to this woman, she wants to. 

It is not Emma that shakes when she steps forward, eyes boring straight into her Queen’s as she reaches out and takes Regina’s right hand, bringing it up to her lips. There is no need to kneel at this point, as she moves her mouth up to a wrist, kissing the fast thudding pulse underneath.

“I don’t want to stop.” She whispers. 

Pliant, but still and silent, Regina allows herself to be moved, her arm lifted and turned at Emma’s will. 

“Please don’t make me go.”

She reaches for the ties at the front of the robe, holding it together, pulling gently until the fabric whispers its descent and leaves an expanse of pale caramel coloured skin, Regina says nothing as Emma leans forward again, coming in to nuzzle her face against the soft, fleshy upper arm, stepping in closer so that her body prickles in the awareness of skin so close to hers. 

“Let me stay.”

She moves then, coming to stand behind Regina, more confident with every moment, knowing that if she hasn’t been rebuked by now that she won’t be. This is allowed, this is welcomed, this is how it is done. 

The bumps and rises of Regina’s back is a tempting map of skin and her neck bends to mouth at the ridges of shoulder, shoulder blades and spine, feeling the shudder of muscle underneath. She rounds to the other side, letting her hand slide up Regina’s right arm, across the back and down her left. 

“Please, My Queen.” 

Silent still, Regina allows herself to be studied. It is not acquiescence and neither of them mistakes it as such. This is Regina standing still, regal as ever, her majesty allowing her pet to worship and adore her. 

They are both naked and Emma allows her entire body to push slightly against Regina’s as she ducks her chin under that of her Queen and begins mouthing the slender neck there. Soft kiss, small sucks, the edge of her pebble hard nipple brushing against Regina’s, it is horrible and emboldening, this freedom to move at will. 

It doesn’t last long and Emma gasps in relief, a moaning sob of approval when a hand slams up hard against the back of her neck and twists in her hair, pulling her head back and slamming her body up against Regina’s. 

“I am not nice.” Regina hisses against her, the same litany over and over. “I will never be nice.”

And Emma repays in kind. 

“I didn’t ask for nice.”

“Emma.” And for one brief moment, Regina’s touch is soft, a hand over her cheek, the only moment of weakness. “I am not one of them, I don’t want to be one of them. I don’t want to make amends and suffer and atone for my crimes, white washing my life and playing nice over mead and roast boar in the great hall.”

She tries to shake her head against the hand holding it still. 

“Do you know what you’re choosing? Do you?” The soft hand on her cheek closes tighter, pads of Regina’s fingers pressing more fully into Emma’s skin. “They’ll never fully believe you, I bet they already think I cast a spell, enchanted you. They’ll try to convince you to leave, they’ll dog you again and again and again, until it’s just easier for you to agree."

The fingers pull down on her cheek, dragging across and down her neck, five points that might almost be pain but don’t quite reach. 

“Nobody wants their Princess in bed with the Queen of all Evil.”

Emma squeaks, a sudden too loud sound she bites back and breathes through. 

“I didn’t ask them.”

She has no more time to say anything as Regina’s mouth descends, claiming hers, pushing her tongue right in without pause and Emma rumbles her agreement, her pleasure as she opens wider, allowing Regina to take control, take possession.

A second hand comes up to pinch her nipple to the point of pain and Emma’s body relaxes into an arch, back bent as her hands slide effortlessly behind her back. 

“Tell me.” Regina demands against her lips. “Tell me.”

“Yours.” Automatic, unthought, it comes out naturally. “Yours, My Queen.”

***

Hard packed earth hits the soles of his boots and oil grease teases the lining of his nostrils as he walks the last of the crude tunnel. 

“Well, well.” Sings the familiar, hated voice. “Look what we have here.”

He has no energy or patience for playing games. Not today. And so he stands in front of the cell, torch light flickering the left side of his face as the muscles in his cheek twitch. The creature in the caves, their prisoner, once a townsman, now a twisted monster once more. 

“Come without your usual cloak, have you?” Rumplestiltskin teases as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, this one or any other. “And where is your lovely wife this evening?”

Their eyes meet and Charming doesn’t flinch, Rumplestiltskin’s face quickly falls from amused to curiosity. 

“Was this your big plan?” The words come out harsh and bitten and angry and he had no idea how strongly he has been holding it all in until now. “To break my daughter so completely that she can’t even see her family when it’s right in front of her?”

All day, and even before, for months, he has worn a neutral expression, covered his feelings for the sake of his wife, his daughter, his grandson, even for his people, unable and unwilling to let loose this growing swirl of bitterness that has been churning in his gut. He wants to understand, he needs to understand. 

When he doesn’t get an answer beyond the raising of a green, shimmering eyebrow, Charming slams the torch against the bars. 

“Was it?”

Rumplestiltskin licks his lips in thought as his eyes raise up to the left. 

“It was _A_ plan.” And then they roll down again, delight lighting them up. “But it wasn’t the _big_ plan, no.”

But it isn’t pure, Charming notes, the man lives to tease and torment and he knows his words will elicit some reaction, but there is something harder and more brittle inside Rumplestiltskin’s eyes. 

“Then what was?” It is too easy to play the part, to give him exactly what he wants, because one thing Charming knows is that if you jump through the hoops set out, Rumplestiltskin will give you the answers. “What was your grand plan?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, _Dearie_.” Green scaled fingers click at the end of a raised right arm. “Let’s not be blasé about a scheme centuries in the making!”

When he is certain of his attention, Rumplestiltskin grips the bars and pokes his chin through them. 

“You’re not the only one who lost something _precious_. I lost something very dear to me and to get it back I had to create a soul so broken she would launch the Dark Curse and take us to a different land.”

“For twenty eight years.” Charming can’t help but parrot the words, said so often before the curse as he paced the floor and watched his wife’s belly swell that they are practically tattooed in his brain. “Until the Saviour returned to break the curse and bring back the happy endings.”

They taste bitter on his tongue. He can’t help but wonder if he knew then what he knows now if he would ever have had the courage to do the right thing, to put his daughter in that tree and damn her or if he would try to shield her and possibly doom her to an everlasting infancy, doom them all to an eternity of stumbling unknowing through Storybrooke for little more than his own selfishness. 

“So now we’re here.” He points out. “And you got what?”

The fingers around the bars grip tighter as Rumplestiltskin snarls. 

“We weren’t supposed to come back!” He seethes. “We were supposed to stay there and when I brought magic back, I would finally be free!”

A second later, Rumplestiltskin sucks his lips in close to his jaw, a physical manifestation of his sudden desire to keep the words in. This time when he meets Charming’s stare, his eyes are calmer and narrower in blackness. 

“It seems when the cloud of magic hit your daughter it put a wrinkle in things.” Another snarl, small and sedate, not a threat just an expression of distaste. “It seems she not only broke the curse, but probably saved your lives. I would not have been generous if I’d had magic and not found my lost item.”

The information swirls in his head for several moments until he realises that none of his questions have been answered. 

“Stop playing games.”

His face is a mask of calmness and he congratulates himself on not flinching when Rumple draws back and slams his fists against the wood of the bars, teeth flashing. Such a strong reaction to an evenly delivered sentence. 

“Games are all I have! Thanks to you helping Cinderella break a perfectly legal contract and trapping me here, so the very least you can do is show a modicum of that famous charm you’re named for and be patient!”

There is nothing to do but back down, duck his head slightly in acknowledgement and wait. 

“Do you think it’s failsafe, creating a weapon as powerful as Regina? Anything that big had to have a detonator.”

Charming is less than comfortable having anyone, let alone Rumplestiltskin, refer to either Regina or Emma so casually in terms of objects of destruction and weaponry. He wants to reach forward, grab the imp by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth chatter. 

“Don’t look so affronted, Prince Charming. I didn’t create her on my own.” The sneer on his lips is half amusement, half cruelty. “They’re one and the same, you know. Every step you and your wife took, and your wife took a lot I might add, against Regina was another nail in your daughter’s cross.”

He wants to argue, to challenge Rumplestiltskn, to deny his words. But the simple fact is that he can’t, Charming cannot decry the words as a lie. He may be many things, but Rumplestiltskin is a truth sayer. He twists the truth until it is unrecognisable sometimes, but it is still the truth. 

And this, this rings far truer than anything yet. 

He clutches his hand to his chest. 

“So… you made… all of this, you made her just for this?”

And Rumplestiltskin still has the gall to laugh. 

“It’s a bit late in the game for _this_ conversation, Dearie, but trust me, you and your wife made her all on your own.” His right hand mimes picking up a delicate object and bringing it into the light. “I merely made use of what was there.”

There is no magic in this cell, there will never be magic in this cell, they made sure of that a long time ago, but Charming is almost certain he can see sparks where Rumplestiltskin’s fingers dance, an eerie little homage. 

“I plucked a true love baby from its little true love nest.” His sing song voice turns into a tsk of warming, eyes glowing as Charming rears back to strike. “Regina needed an off switch and don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same again, now, given the choice.”

“Curse you.” Hisses Charming, anger practically frothing at the mouth. “We should have killed you when we had the chance.”

One by one, Rumplestiltskin’s fingers curl around the bars, settling like the claws of a bird. 

“But you didn’t. And you won’t.” It’s a macabre little show, Rumplestiltskin mimicking facial expressions of sympathy so overblown and grotesque that they are nothing but mockery. “You and all the side of good are so foolish you will keep me in this cage, until this generation and the next and the one after are gone and there is nobody left who remembers why it’s so important and the cage can no longer keep me, then I shall be free. I am a patient man, Charming, can you say the same?”

The crisp sound of metal on wood sounds and Rumplestiltskin doesn’t even flinch at the sword blade that slaps across his chest, just below his face. 

“Tell me.” Charming orders, jaw held tight as he tries not to give in to the taunting. “Tell me, what would her life have been like if there’d been no curse? If she’d stayed with us?”

“Well.” The imp makes a show of fluttering his eye lashes. “That would be merely conjecture, wouldn’t it? I can’t tell a future that didn’t happen, can I? Only one path actually happened, the rest is mere… fallacy.”

But he is not having it. 

“You foresee the future, you foresee all the futures. You tell me!”

And so Rumplestiltskin gives in. 

“Exactly what you think would have happened, you foolish man.” Because even now, Rumplestiltskin cannot resist torment when the possibility is there. “She would have been raised blanketed by love, doted on and confident and never wanting a thing in her entire life.”

This time when Rumplestiltskin reaches forward, Charming is too slow to move back and he finds the front of his shirt twisted in a fist, holding him to the bars, close enough that the man can sneer in his face. 

“She would have grown up just like any other spoiled, entitled princess who cares for nothing and nobody, perhaps married herself off in a boring political allegiance rather than for true love, had a couple of heirs just as over indulged as she, her moral character would empty and non-existent.”

And then Charming finds himself released. 

“Tell me, now that I think about it, how is dear Abigail? I’ve forgotten to ask.”

The memories come unbidden, those hapless days and weeks, and Charming shakes his head violently to clear them. 

“The truth is you _did_ put her in that tree and you damned her life to misery and in doing so, you made her strong and upstanding and appreciative of every little thing. You made her the woman she is. So tell me, Charming, would you change that? Would you keep little baby Emma even now?”

He closes his eyes. He loves Emma, of course he loves her, she is a strong, vibrant woman, she is everything Rumplestiltskin says she is and he can see, all too easily he can see how a life of luxury could ruin that. 

No matter how he likes to twist words, there is an element of truth to what Rumplestiltskin says, he knows it and it galls him. 

“Would you kiss that tiny, squirming little bundle and hold it close? Perhaps hide it swaddled in a chest until the worst had passed?” Rumplestiltskin takes a second to enjoy the taste of pain he’s created. “Or would you pat its wrinkled little head and say sorry as you closed the door? Tell her you’re damning her for her own good?”

Because he doesn’t know anymore, given the choice, doesn’t know if he would or wouldn’t put that baby in the tree. His baby, Snow’s baby, their daughter. Emma. 

When he opens his eyes, there is a sickening expression in front of him, one that is enjoying this entire conversation too much. Charming pushes away from the bars and manages not to give into the urge to just ram the sword home, even now. 

“Rot in hell, Rumplestiltskin.”

As he turns and begins striding out, he hears the chuckle behind him. 

“See you there, Charming.”

***

These are the moments she allows herself, private and unencumbered, with nobody to see but herself. Regina learned from a very early age to keep her secrets well, to only let the appropriate thoughts and actions be known. And then only when requested. 

But this, this time is hers. 

She sits on the chair, right ankle crossed over the left and sips her tea gently, watching the amber liquid swirl and eddy in the spoons wake. Three quick, crisp taps to the side of the cup, she cannot resist the temptation to bring the spoon up and slide it through her lips, sucking on the bowl of it. It’s absurd to still feel rebellious in the movement, but her inner nine year old smiles with smug pleasure at the thought of her mother’s expression. Laying the spoon to the side of the saucer, she lifts the cup delicately between her thumb and forefinger like a proper lady and sips on the hot, sweet tea. 

Across from her, always at the foot of her bed, Emma lays tangled in the nest of blankets. Regina can see a knee and the bottom half of a slender leg hooked outside, plump rounded little calf muscle slack against the floor. The white skin spread over the back of a shoulder blade flickers in the light of the dying fire. And her face, Emma’s face, smoothed out in sleep, cherry bud mouth slightly parted with the faintest hint of a whistle. 

It’s absurd, in the same tragic way that her entire life is absurd, that this woman is hers now, this gigantic unstoppable force that came into her life and flipped it. She is the biggest threat Regina has faced in twenty eight years and she eats out of Regina’s hand. 

Literally. 

She is beautiful. Now that she is alone with no one to even see the expression on her face, now that Emma is at the end of a leash, Regina can admit this to herself. Beautiful and fierce and dangerous and tempting. It is no wonder she is the saviour, full to the brim with righteousness and some indefinable little tug that winds its way around Regina and won’t let go. She could be the downfall of many, Regina thinks, if she knew her own power. 

Henry wants to see her, Emma has said, but she doesn’t know how to trust that, doesn’t know how to be Regina the Mom anymore, not when she is unquestionably his Evil Queen. Those months when he would glare at her, sure of nothing as much as he was her guilt, so much that he left town to bring the Saviour home to defeat her. She is afraid of him, of his almost certain rejection, of not knowing how to be anything but his mother when she will be nothing but a novelty to him. 

Daylight streams through the window and she looks over, eyes wandering over the rises and falls of the mountains beyond, the never ending forest scape surrounding them. Her haven of solitude and prison all rolled into one. She will die here, she knows it, unmourned and alone, just as she has lived.

The curse everyone wants to forget has been her only respite. 

She feels eyes on her, the familiar prickle of attention that crawls up her neck, and when she turns back it is already too late. Emma’s eyes blink as she lies unmoving on her stomach, head lying sideways on a pouch of blanket, looking for all the world as though she is at peace. 

Regret flows over her like a ripple, a small wave that is easily shaken off. It’s a rapid fleeting progression that Regina looks for, gone in moments, those careless beats where Emma uncurls like a cat somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, heedless of anyone else, unaware of Regina. Before memory and reality sets in and that ever present protectiveness slams back up. She has missed it this morning. 

“Come, my Pet.” Regina is nothing but casual as she sets the cup on the little sideboard and stands. “The sun is halfway to the sky already.”

To her credit, Emma is always quick in snapping to attention, one moment curled and the next upright, scrambling quickly to the bed where she kneels and her hands come to rest lightly in the small of her back. 

Regina cannot stop herself reaching out to trail the tips of her fingers across the collarbones there, this body she has tried to cast away, to set free, that keeps coming back to her. She watches the whorls of her fingerprints rising and dipping in the waves of bone and flesh, skin a warm flushed red. 

“Look at you.” She purrs as her hand rises, slides into the shock of blonde hair. “So eager.”

Her body is pliant and willing, but her eyes, Emma’s eyes, they have lost the edge of fear and hatred, the brimming injustice. Now they are warm and sated and expectant. Regina licks the edges of her teeth, unable to stop the sudden tightening of her fist that pulls Emma’s head back. 

Spine stretched, neck arched, Emma’s mouth splits open and Regina cannot stop as she leans down. Her right hand fisted in Emma’s hair, tongue licking those lips all around and demanding entrance, she lets her left hand wander down over and around the flat belly, up the rib cage to cup the waiting breasts. 

Tweaking the nipples into firm little peaks between her fingers. 

If she were to push Emma back on the mattress and shove her hands between the woman’s legs, there would be no resistance, similarly if she were to place her hands on Emma’s shoulders and push her down until her face was buried between Regina’s thighs, there would be none. 

Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The power is both heady and confusing. She has held lives before, the power to crush people and the absolute control that gives. But this is something else, this is something given not stolen, and it feels strangely heavier and freer at the same time. 

“I have a gift for you.” It almost comes out like a gasp when she finally breaks free, an unrestrained, unladylike grab for breath. “My pet.”

And the way Emma sinks down when she is finally released speaks volumes to the way Regina had been lifting her body. 

“Thank you, My Queen.”

The words are automatic, gentle, obedient, gratitude given before she even knows why. Regina feels a thrill like a little spider dancing along her nerves when she summons the box into her hands and sets it reverently down on the bed just in front of Emma’s knees. 

Intricate metalwork patterns the top and sides of the wood, whorls and curlicues, latched with a delicate little clasp. A work of beauty, Regina thinks, and she is not alone if the curious awed expression on Emma’s face is anything to go by. 

Reaching out tentatively, Emma inhales, and Regina watches hungrily as she traces her fingers along the patterns. Walking around the corner of the bed so that she can look over Emma’s shoulder, Regina leans down and breathes in her ear. 

“That’s not the gift.” She gets a little shudder in return. “Look inside.”

It’s worse than waiting for a child to open their present on Christmas morning. She wants to reach across and flip the lid up immediately, all the more to see Emma’s reaction. 

She doesn’t disappoint. 

Emma’s gasp is loud the second her fingers pry open the box, dropping it instantly and scooting backwards. Her body bumps into Regina and Regina does not move, does not allow room for Emma’s escape. She brings her mouth back down to Emma’s ear. 

“I’d relax if I were you, my good little pet.” It’s a tickle of breath. “You wouldn’t want to unnerve it.”

“No.” Is the automatic answer, a whispered breath of a plea as Emma shakes her head. “Please, My Queen, no. I can’t…”

Her hand fits into the divot that is the small of Emma’s back, her tailbone, fingers finding the knobs of bone as she strokes upwards and spreading out when she gets to the middle. It’s one quick, firm push forward and Emma is unprepared to stop herself tumbling closer to the box. 

She lands on her forearms, face inches from the box, and the distaste and horror is evident even from this angle. 

“You’re not refusing a gift, are you?” Regina tuts for show. “Are you trying to displease me?”

Emma is slow to move upright again and there is nothing but resistance in her posture. This time when Regina reaches out to touch the side of her ribs, she flinches. 

“You will do it, because I say you will do it.” There is nowhere for Emma to move, she is surrounded by Regina, a hand on each side of her ribs and chest pressed to her back. “It was your choice to remain, need I remind you?”

She feels rather than sees the setting of Emma’s jaw. 

And then the box is opened again. A small hiss escapes and Emma snaps her hand back an inch, her entire arm trembling, as Regina comes back around to stand towards the front. This she wants to see. 

“Go on.” She urges quietly, voice only slightly high with bitten down excitement. “Pick it up.”

When Emma looks up, her eyes are two tiny pin points of fear and Regina can see the war going on inside them. Emma would not be here for anyone else, is barely here now. It sends a rush down Regina’s spine and through her blood. 

As she watches, Emma reaches forward again. She doesn’t pick the creature up, rather just offers her hand, but it’s enough and the deep orange snake seems to know where to go, sliding its belly over her wrist. 

A whimper escapes from a trembling throat and Regina coos in response. 

“Easy now, Pet. They can smell fear.”

All the colour has drained from Emma’s face, gone completely white, and with it goes all the moisture in Regina’s mouth as she licks her teeth. Her eyes stay transfixed on the snake as it coils itself around Emma’s arm, body bunching and sliding up in shimmering scales. 

“Did I ever tell you that I killed my husband with one of these?”

A sudden cry escapes Emma’s throat and wide eyes are turned on Regina, Emma’s mouth opening and closing without finding the words to speak. Held stiff and apart from her body, Emma’s arm quivers with the strain of not jerking away from the snake twisted around it. 

It’s not the exact snake, of course, nothing quite so venomous is needed here, but Emma doesn’t need to know that. 

“My Queen?” Trembling, Emma sounds close to tears. “Please…”

“Close your eyes, Emma.” She whispers in a more soothing voice, leaning forward. “I want you to feel it, reach out with your magic and feel it.”

A green tongue flicks out of the small diamond shaped head, tasting the air, and then it begins slithering across Emma’s front, changing direction as it rides the give and fall of Emma’s ribs. 

“Concentrate.” Regina orders. “Your magic knows what to do, trust it.”

Before her eyes, she watches Emma’s breath change, become deeper, watches her expression smooth out. It’s the beginning of a trance and Regina knows this state well, the deep concentration needed to access the power at the beginning. 

“That’s it.” Contrasted with Emma’s skin, the snake glows an even brighter orange, almost fiery as it swivels its head back upwards. “That’s it, My Pet.”

There is fear in the air, she can practically smell it, and if she can so can the snake. Regina doesn’t take her eyes off the slithering, sliding creature and the tongue that flicks out repeatedly, tasting Emma in the air. 

Emma’s fingers are splayed, rigid in their fight to stay still, the most obvious sign of her discomfort as she continues to breathe. A small gasp sounds and Regina smiles to the sight of the snake winding up over Emma’s shoulder and around the back of her neck, crossing to the other side and coming back to the front. 

“Can you feel it?” It comes out as a whisper as she leans closer, anticipation making her voice tight. “Emma, My Pet, can you?”

“Yes.” It’s a soft, sibilant hiss, still tight but less scared. “I… I feel…”

It glows orange as it coils itself around her neck, looping scales and soft cold belly against the tendons and muscles there, and Regina watches rapt as it opens its jaws. 

“Ohhhh.” Emma’s face widens in surprise. “There…”

She has never seen this done, only read about it in an old spell book, it is entrancing as she watches the snake find its tail, beginning to swallow itself around and around, belly swelling until it is one, continuous circle, a loop. 

“Bring it in, Emma.” 

The orange glow turns a bright, fiery red, a seeming blast of energy and flames that leaves behind it a soft, golden metal collar patterned with never ending scales. 

“The Ouroboros.” Regina whispers as she reaches out and strokes one thumb under Emma’s right eye. “For everything ending that begins again. It’s renewal, Emma, the acceptance of your dark and light self.”

When Emma opens her eyes, the fear is gone and she leans her cheek into Regina’s hand. 

“And it’s made from your magic.” She brings both hands up now, cupping the face that leans into her. “Nobody can take it from you again without your express will, nobody. Not even I.”

She watches as Emma reaches up, slides her fingers gently over the metal around her neck, reverently, and then just as carefully slides them up to Regina’s own wrists, circling them. 

“My Queen.”

It’s as good as a thank you, a whispered caress and Regina shudders all down her spine, unable to stop the movement. Her wrists twist in the loose grip of her pet, turning her palms outward and making it easy to close her fingers over the ones waiting there. 

She lifts Emma’s hands straight up over her head, stretches her body into a long line. 

“You’re mine.”

Her fingers wrap around the arms and slide down, dragging the skin with the tips of her fingernails as she goes, all the way down to fleshy underarms as she leans back to stare at the woman, docile and still and trusting on her knees in front of her. 

Emma, who should hate her. Emma, who knows more than others the evil she is capable of and still chose her. Emma, that can look her in the eye and ask for this, can claim there is nothing wrong with giving or taking power to such a degree and make Regina believe it. Emma, the only person in her life who hasn’t wanted to leave. 

Pushing her knee onto the bed, she gives Emma no choice but to slide backwards, a shaky manoeuvre but she manages to keep her arms up as she goes, again and again, until Regina is all the way up and Emma is between her and the wall. 

“No matter what anyone tries to tell you.” Ducking down, Regina brings her mouth close to Emma’s ear. “No matter who tries to take you away.”

Her teeth close over the tender little lobe and she hears the sharp intake of breath. A quick nibble, then another, then her tongue soothes over the little indents left. 

“No matter how far you run.” Another bite, harder this time, a clear warning as she slides her left hand into the side of Emma’s waist to hold her body still. “You are mine.”

They are touching, knees together on the mattress, hips snug, and Regina breathes in to feel the pebble hard nipples of Emma against her front. Then Emma cries out in surprise and Regina sits back on her heels, looking up at the same time as her pet to see the stone circling the wrists. 

Long tendrils have reach out from the wall to grab Emma’s arms and pull her back, bending her backwards over the headboard like an absurd limbo player, stretching her body taut. And Regina reaches up with her right hand, trailing one long fingernail from sternum to crotch, over the ridges of ribs and bone and belly. 

“You can leave me, Emma.” It’s a casual voice, but they are not casual words and the air is heavy with desperation. She pauses to allow the small whimper, the emphatic headshake that Emma tries to give. “But you will always belong to me.”

Regina once said that she would have Emma obedient, willing and anticipating with perfect accuracy what she needed, but she is still surprised to find it so as Emma arches her back even further and spreads her knees apart.

“This.” She slides her fingers through coarse, wiry hair and into slippery wet folds. “This also is mine.”

And Emma moans her assent. 

The pale gold at her neck gleams as Regina looks up her body, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to move. She wraps her left arm all the way around the small of Emma’s back, supporting the weight with her forearm as she thrusts the two middle fingers of her right hand all the way in. 

Her life is an illusion and there are no bigger lies than the ones she tells herself. She could be happy, she could be loved, if only she was a good enough daughter. She might have been a cherished wife, had only she given in. She was happy in power, controlling an entire town, if only her son had truly loved her. She has been many things, done many things, large and dramatic and life changing, but through it all she has been nothing. 

And if she has been nothing, everything she’s ever done has ultimately been nothing. 

But Emma feels her, more than that she wants to, body twisting in its contortionist shape, she feels and pants and strains to her. Regina has no reserves for anything but to bend forward and close her mouth over the twisting navel in front of her. 

There’s a gasp, soft voiced, as Emma’s body goes still. 

Everything she has ever done with this woman, be it for pleasure or pain, has had a recognisable purpose, an underlying step in the grand plan of breaking her down and binding her to Regina’s will. But this, this is different and trust Emma Swan to notice immediately. 

This soft, almost gentle kiss to a winking belly button. 

_Don’t hurt me unnecessarily_ was Emma’s only stipulation, allowing for the fact she knew Regina would always hurt her a little bit, would not be able to stop herself. There’d been no call for gentleness or care. No pleading for anything but the lack of split skin. 

She could, she could slide her mouth sideways to the rise of bone in Emma’s hip, sink her teeth in until Emma cries out, make her writhe and buck under her. It’s tempting and for a second she thinks about doing it as she does move to the left and opens her mouth wide. 

But she doesn’t bite, sucking instead, hard enough to break blood cells until she is sure there will be a purplish bruise. 

Regina has fallen into the age old trap for as much as she has bound Emma to her, making the woman want what she obviously should not, she has lost sight of the fact that she herself has been bound to Emma. 

She wants her, she needs her, roaming lost through the halls when she is not here. 

When the hazy purple smoke first cleared, Regina had looked around the small, broken nursery, the room of shattered dreams, and known all the way to her bones that she would no longer be Regina Mills. As Snow and Charming and the entire town woke, they would look on her only as their Evil Queen once more, the bringer of all their heartache and the destroyer of their happiness. This is exactly how they have all treated her, Henry too, all except one. One, who has the most reason to believe in her wickedness, and yet the only one who now trusts her. 

“Come for me, Pet.” Her voice comes out croaked and thick. “As hard as you can.”

Like the flick of a switch, it happens, Emma’s body tuned perfectly to her demand. And she feels the immediate surge of fluid against her palm and wrist, the increase in wet, hot sucking sounds as she continues to thrust in and out, adding a third finger. 

“Emma.”

It comes out as a string of pained, desperate sounds and it is that moment, that one crucial moment, that Regina feels it. Looking up at the woman stretched out in front of her, Regina sees the understanding in Emma’s eyes, mouth falling open as one lone tendril of sweat soaked hair falls from her brow. 

Her heart stops, actually physically stops and she cannot breathe, too close and too open and vulnerable as she has not allowed herself to be anywhere in her memory. 

Another breath and she moves back, but Emma is faster than her, bound to the wall she takes the only option left and lifts her left leg, wrapping it solidly around Regina’s right hip as her foot plants itself against the small of Regina’s back and holds her there. 

In those eyes, Regina can see that every single time she has demanded Emma call herself hers, the only thing she has been doing is giving herself away. 

“Yours.” Emma breathes, eyes not looking away from the stark, almost painful truth that they both mean the opposite. “Always yours.”

Shaking, Regina slides her hand from Emma’s back around to the front, splays her fingers across the taut, flat abdomen and digs her fingertips into the flesh. 

“Mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many people to thank. 
> 
> Mostly, all the readers anon or named, those who left comments or those that just browsed, positive, critical or somewhere in between, I appreciate each and every single one of you. I appreciate it was not an easy fic to read, but I am glad that you stayed and saw it through. I hope the ending is, if not perhaps as closed and "finished" as wanted, enough to give some closure to the story at hand. 
> 
> To my wonderful friends on skype that listen to me moan and bitch and make fun of this work and give advice and stop me making bad mistakes and encourage me to find better solutions, THANK YOU: missbreese, natasi, whiteknightswan. 
> 
> To the absolutely talented people who make fan graphics inspired by this fic: THANK YOU. I cannot tell you how much I adore them or appreciate them, you have made me smile so many times. There are lots of beautiful graphics to be found on tumblr for this and I do encourage you all to look.


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